I'm such a quiet little ghost,
Demure and inoffensive;
The other spirits say I'm most
Absurdly apprehensive.

Through all the merry hours of night
I'm uniformly cheerful;
I love the dark, but in the light,
I own, I'm rather fearful.

Each dawn I cower down in bed,
In every brightness seeing
That weird, uncanny form of dread
An awful Human Being!

Of course I'm told they can't exist,
That Nature would not let them;
But Willy Spook, the Humanist,
Declares that he has met them!

He says they do not glide like us,
But walk in eerie paces;
They're solid, not diaphanous,
With arms ! and legs !! and faces !!!

And some are beggars, some are kings,
Some have and some are wanting;
They squander time in doing things
Instead of simply haunting.

They talk of "art," the horrid crew,
And things they call "ambitions."—
Oh yes, I know as well as you
They're only superstitions.

But should the dreadful day arrive
When, starting up, I see one,
I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive;
And then—oh, then I'll be one!