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!