A devil's drinking in a corner, crying over spilt milk,
a banshee's wailing by the fire, in torn and muddy silk,
the Egyptian priest is smiling, but the scarab's hiding his heart,
and though the vampire keeps talking, the conversation just won't start.
And all of them feel empty, and altogether alone,
and though each one has plenty, they each an inward groan
must hide from all the others, lest the others see
if each one had his druthers, he something else would be.
At times the vampire, alone within his grave,
thinks about the times he should have been more brave.
Under the mummy's many wraps, a silent heart still yearns,
and though he knows the truth, false hopes and lies he learns.
Though they all see it on her face, regret, remorse, and pain,
the banshee cries it is her right to have her infants slain.
The devil's horns weigh down his head
as he thinks where his willful passions led.
Tale Told 