Slay after slay,
A bone for a thrill,
The man with the undead grin has got one purpose: to kill.
His gross body doesn't slow him—
You see, that's because he's a ghoul.
He's all pustules, sores, and cankers. . .

He's a ghoul on a kill;
When the sun's going down
He will rise from the dead
And seek you for ground round.

Hellish buffet:
Head once so proud—
This man chews a crown, and loin is
Something through which he's plowed.
And everyone seems to fear him
'cause his chow is your ear--he'll take
It off faster than van Gogh did. . .

He's a ghoul on a kill;
When the sun's going down,
He will pry off your head
And eat, making loud sounds.

And nobody seems to like him
'cause they know that he wants to chew;
And he severs throats; appealing
Not's the drool when he kills.
He's not fun to be 'round:
He'll pop eyes from your head
As he's splitting your crown.

Chowing down and down and down. . . .