The hairy bats, their beady eyes
They screech and scratch, big in size
The hooting owl, its creepy call
To sound the night to one and all
The scuttling of bugs, they scurry about
I want it to stop—they really freak me out
I hear a low moaning—is there really a ghost?
No, just my imagining—the wind at the most
But there is a presence, a scary one, in fact
For the spirit of the skeleton is actually still intact