My story began back at home in my grave
   When, tired of my bone-idle plight,
I decided one night to go for a flit
   And forgot to return before light

In post-mortem circles the rules are dead strict
   And quite categorically say
That spectres are always expected to be
   Six feet underground before day.

I was grabbed by the ghouls for this ghastly offence
   And sentenced to serve on a farm.
They gave me a shroud, a big ball-and-chain
   And a head to tuck under my arm.

It might be imagined the task would be fun
   And I know a few ghosts who’d agree
Yet when I try wailing and screaming and such
   The only one frightened is me.

I find contradictions in the work that we do -
   Some of it just doesn’t seem right.
How can you scare living daylights from folk
   When you’re only allowed out at night?

My colleagues are drawn from all walks of death,
   They could pack Yellow Pages twice over.
A few of them fill in as skeleton staff
   And the ghost writers, well, they’re in clover.

But I’m sick to death of being a spook
   I hated the job from the start.
I’m much too retiring to be awe-inspiring
   And for haunting I haven’t the heart!