All the pretty, dead things, Standing in a row, Are speaking, oh so quietly, Of things, you ought to know. Their lidless eyes see deep inside, Picking out what you’d rather keep hidden. Their lipless grins twist and gnash, Bringing all darkest thoughts, unbidden. Their skinless bones knock and shake, Scratching out death’s eerie laugh. You’ll never be free from their fingerless grasp, Don’t think they’ll let you pass. Every morning you wake, Though your bones all still hold flesh, You move ever closer, To days of eternal unrest. Practice now, your lidless stares, Be ready when they come. Your place they’ll hold, among their ranks, When your living days are done. ...