Beowulf Pulled My Arm Off I was just a kid On the wide bleak moor And I had a longing for Sitting on the gift-throne, Lurched to the hall on a cold dark night, Killed the people inside, And I got to sit there all alone. Somehow, this didn't really go over well; They called me hell-spawn, dunno why. I only ate thirty guys every night, No real idea why they kept coming by. Twelve years went by, Twelve years went fast. I admit that I Thought the danger past Till they called in an expert. And he laid in wait, waiting in the dark, Waiting till I jumped him. And the fight raged fast, and the fight raged slow, And the fight was done, and you already know that Beowulf pulled my arm off In the hall, in the hall. Beowulf pulled my arm off. It doesn't matter at all. It doesn't matter at all. So I wandered down To the mere to die, Would've rather that I was Sitting on the gift-throne. Here's the thing: when he fought me there, What he actually did Was to leave my mother all alone. She didn't take it calmly at all; Stormed to the hall and killed some guy. So Beowulf chased her down to the mere, Borrowed a sword and jumped in: waved goodbye. And down he went To certain death; I'm not sure how He held his breath, But that's not in the story. And he made it to where my mother lived, And they had another battle, And it all got pretty confusing then, But the bit that you need to know happened when Beowulf stabbed my mother In the mere, in the mere. Beowulf stabbed my mother: You see what's happening here. Can you see what's happening here? In some other land, Fifty years went past, And then it was Beowulf Sitting on the gift-throne, Known as a wise and a mighty king. No more monsters to be slain; He just ruled the kingdom all alone Until some dragon went and burned the place down; Then Beowulf's crown left him kind of stuck. He had to take a dozen guys off on a quest Down to the dragon's lair, creeping through the muck. Thirteen ran mightily To the cave; Too bad that only Two were brave; It became quite a problem. So the men hung back, and they hemmed and hawed Till the fight was nearly over. Just the king and this kid named Wiglaf fought, And you probably know, though possibly not, that Beowulf went and got roasted In the cave, in the cave. Beowulf went and got roasted; The situation was grave. The situation was grave. People keep asking me, "What's the deal with Beowulf? He killed you pretty quickly, and that wasn't fair. Doesn't that make you mad, doesn't that make you wish You could do it all again, or don't you care? He destroyed your life; He stabbed your mum in your very own home." And I say, "Yeah, but hey, I'm in an epic poem! I'm in an epic poem." Beowulf pulled my arm off In the hall, in the hall. Beowulf pulled my arm off. It doesn't matter at all. It doesn't matter at all. Beowulf pulled my arm off In the hall, in the hall. Beowulf pulled my arm off. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Despite the spatter, it doesn't matter. And you are forced to read about me for your first-year English course, and so It doesn't matter at all!

Dear George R. R. Martin Dear George R. R. Martin: I know that you're busy, But I am requesting you finish your books. Your plot lines are great, but they're making me dizzy; The world you've created's more dense than it looks. I really like settling down with your creation And reading non-stop till eleven p.m. But your characters foster a certain stagnation, Most likely 'cause there are too many of them. Dear George R. R. Martin: the problem is growing. I'm simply not sure how long I can press on. Oh, don't get me wrong; I do like where you're going, But at this point, I can't recall where you've gone. With each book that comes out, I reread the series, And that takes forever and ends in a blur. And then there's foreshadowing, hints, and fan theories. Just kill Sansa Stark; no one cares about her. Dear George R. R. Martin: I'm fond of King's Landing And Riverrun, Dragonstone, and Winterfell. Beyond that, your tale passes my understanding. The whole situation's confusing as hell. The scope of your project is simply breathtaking, And I must admire all that you have done. But after five books, my attention span's breaking. Let's face it; it was kind of shot after one. Dear George R. R. Martin: I have a suggestion: When writing Book 6, think of ways you can try To ease your astonishing plot-strand congestion By sending as much stuff as you can awry. Douse your Seven Kingdoms in fiery terror From deep in the south to the crest of the Wall. King, warrior, priest, princess, lowly torch-bearer: The story will end when you've murdered them all.

Have I Mentioned We're All Dead Here? Welcome to our session. I trust that our clinicians Have helped you grow accustomed to our institution. Anyway, It must be quite disturbing to be seeing apparitions, But I'm sure we can work through this, and you're going to be okay. I know you've said your memories of recent times are hazy; You've been overwhelmed by ghosts and don't know what to do or where to go. Don't worry; I assure you, sir, that you are far from crazy, And we shall make real progress. But for starters, you should know: Have I mentioned we're all dead here, Which must be quite a shock to you? I think it's pretty great You have realised way too late That it is likely you are going to die here too. So tell me of your mother; I expect she's overbearing. Your father's rather distant, and you often feel that you're alone. Your visions are the product of your mother's stifling caring And your father's need to force you out to make it on your own. You long for their approval, but the contradiction's causing You to dissociate and let your mind create a fantasy, And thus we get your ghosts—I'm sorry, would you mind us pausing? The poltergeists are acting up in visiting room three. Have I mentioned we're all dead here, Which must be quite a shock to you? I think it's pretty great You have realised way too late That it is likely you are going to die here too. If you can come to terms with your own morbid disposition, Which prompts you to reject advice and causes you to see the dead, You may find you're improving, quite of your own volition. Ideally, you'll develop telepathy instead. Our hour's up, but I'd say we've established a connection. It can't be easy for you just to open up; that's quite all right. Now, if you will excuse me, I find I've a predilection To rend your soul in twain while wreaking terror in the night. Have I mentioned we're all dead here, Which must be quite a shock to you? I think it's pretty great You have realised way too late That it is likely you are going to die here too. Have I mentioned we're all dead here, Which must be quite a shock to you? I think it's pretty great You have realised way too late That it is likely you are going to die here too.

I'm Under Your Bed Night dark, No moon. Quiet street, No lights. Sleepy house. Bedtime soon. I'm good At nights. Mum reads. Then a kiss. You believe What she said. Lights off. You miss That I'm Under your bed. Little yawns. Little sighs. Snuggle in Real deep. Open mouth; Close eyes. Relax. Go to sleep. Have sweet Gentle dreams. Feel safe, No dread. How peaceful It seems... But I'm Under your bed. I lurk in the darkness; no one ever dusts down here. You think that you checked, but I hid behind the soccer ball. I liked that I smelled your fear. As the night wears on, I'll crawl up onto your pillow And lick your ear. Perhaps I'll take a bite instead. You can't be sure I'm still under your bed. Nice room. Good toys. Mum and Dad Next door. It always Annoys Them when you Jump across the floor So that I won't Be easily Fed. They don't Believe That I'm Under your bed. And you're Reassured By what They say. They've half-convinced you That I'm Just a story Anyway. That's great For me. You sleep Overhead And only I'm sure That I'm Under your bed. The shadows are thick on your harmless hardwood floor. So you never know exactly what's down there. Why don't you check once more? Once you fall asleep, the room belongs to me. I've a lot in store. I bet you've got a tasty head. It's cute you think I'd stay under the bed. You're safe And warm On the verge Of sleep. You know nothing Can harm You. That's my Cue to creep Out of My den And up your Bedspread. I do good work When I'm on top Of your bed. Night dark, No moon. Quiet street, No lights. Sleepy house. Midnight soon. I'm good At nights. But don't Worry so; I don't Want you dead. It's enough That you know That I'm Under your bed. Admit it: You know That I'm Under your bed.

Voldemort, I Wanna Be Like You I'm a fan of reading novels about Harry Potter, But there's one thing I don't understand. I've heard the arguments, but in my mind, they don't hold water. I would say it's a little absurd how everyone is into this nerd. While all my friends have told me Voldemort is out to harm us, It's fair to say I've really thought this through. I'd murder Harry Potter while he whined, "Expelliarmus!" Voldemort, I wanna be like you. It's said the books involve the struggle between good and evil, And it is obvious who's in the right. It seems to me that this approach is just a bit medieval; That's a pretty big fuss you make over one guy's pet snake. Am I to blame because I like the one who isn't boring? So what if he commits some murders too? You sheeplike people don't impress me with your Dumbledoring; Voldemort, I wanna be like you. Evil Is really just a state of mind; There's no use in trying so hard to obliterate it. No one Is gonna stop you once you find You've got power over everything the more you hate it. The climax is my favourite part of every Harry story, But only up to just before he wins. There'll be a moment that will work as a memento mori, Showing us there's always a way for Voldemort to carry the day. In my opinion, that should really be the novel's ending, And that it isn't doesn't ring real true. Come on, Rowling: back me up, and help 'em comprehending: Voldemort, I wanna be like you. [Bridge] If you Just think about it for a while, You will realise the validity of what I'm saying. Wake up; It's really all about the style That's inherent in that lying, killing, and betraying. I accept that almost no one thinks I'm right about this, But I'm sure that my approach is sound. Go ahead and tell the world how very much you doubt this. In the end, my logic is clear. I'll show you how it's happening here: I have got a truly crazy and exciting thesis: It should be extremely easy to see. All I have to do is split my soul in seven pieces, And someday, someone will wanna be like me. Yes, all my friends have told me Voldemort is out to harm us, But hey, too bad. I mean, what can you do? I'd murder Harry Potter while he whined, "Expelliarmus!" Voldemort, I wanna be like you. Oh yeah!

Superheroine Wake up Early in the morning, After last night Feel a bit raw. Know it Will take a lot of effort To squeeze into my Double-reinforced bra. Do some Stretching exercises, Never mind how Painful it feels. You've got To grin and bear the bad stuff To save the universe In nine-inch heels. The bad guys wait for me; How will they tie me up today? I've mastered all the knots They've used before, so that's okay. Perhaps the hero down The street will need to rescue me. My suit accentuates My cleavage very subtly. Be prepared to show some skin If you're a superheroine. Eat some Celery and rice cakes, Not too much: Wouldn't want to get fat. Make sure I've perfected all my poses; It'd be bad If I didn't do that. Check that I'm in very little clothing; You need to see The muscles I flex. Mostly The ones in my butt cheeks. Find more ways To bring up sex. I'm in this super-group; Of course, I am the only chick. The guys are into me, And clearly, I can take my pick. There's one guy who can fly And one who is extremely strong. I can do back-flips and Have awesome hair that's really long, It's essential to be thin When you're a superheroine. I have glitter on my outfit. There's some jiggle in my hip. My boots are extremely sexy. My main weapon is a whip. Little boys think I am pretty. Little girls think—all right, may I get back to you on that one? My technique's based on ballet. I'll seduce you while I fight you. I can't help it; you won't mind. I can turn my breasts so they face The same way as my behind. I've got rape in my backstory; It is what has helped me grow And makes you want to protect me. It's all pretty deep, and so That's the right place to begin To be a superheroine. Don my Tiny little eye mask, Check my phone: No messages yet. I know The guys want to include me, But sometimes, They simply forget. Oh well; I'd just be a distraction. They're much more Effective without Some girl Who's always getting kidnapped. They're in the right; I've no doubt. I know I'm second-best, And that's the way it's got to be. I'm sure there's some heroic Deed out there that's right for me. I'll go and save a child And look astounding while I do, And then I'll sleep with someone, Doesn't really matter who. There are many ways to win When you're a superheroine.

Kids These Days I've always been fond of my calling As a bringer of chaos and strife. I believe what my kind does is evil And submit that the blood is the life. But lately, something is not working. I sense that there's not as much fear. My victims invite me in and then chirp, "Bite me!" I'm not sure what's happening here. I search for clues in my reflection, Or would if I had one to see. The younger vampires don't know that Or anything else known by me. They don't want to feed or to torture. They're not up for learning the lore. They beg to be bitten; they act like they're smitten, But I have no notion what for. Kids these days With their sullen and baffling ways! They've been caught in some vampire craze; I can't praise Kids these days. Kids these days: They are all about angst and regret, As deluded as I've ever met. I don't get Kids these days. The newer vampires are eager But not for the death and the pain. They sigh about how they are burdened, And they go for sad walks in the rain. I've tried to bring them to the slaughter. They tell me it isn't much fun. I teach them to darkle; they just want to sparkle! They keep burning up in the sun. Kids these days With their sullen and baffling ways! They've been caught in some vampire craze; I can't praise Kids these days. Kids these days: They are all about angst and regret, As deluded as I've ever met. I don't get Kids these days. I am wanting to hunt and to suck and to feed. I'm an undying monster, and this is my creed. They are wanting to mope and to sigh, To look lovely and noble with tears in the eye, And to be the teenagers forever, while I Can't drive into their thick skulls I have made them die. How can a vampire be a vegetarian, anyway? I think of myself as quite savvy. I am near a thousand years old. I've been 'round the block's what I'm saying, Remaining fierce and uncontrolled. But never in all my existence Have youngsters been such a disgrace. They won't stop their whining; they claim that they're shining; I want to punch them in the face. I lurk in the graveyard at twilight. The new moon is going...then gone. Its light is eclipsed by the darkness. I'll be here till the breaking of dawn. I've finally made my decision, And oddly, it makes me feel free. The humans said they were in need of a slayer; I never thought it would be me. Kids these days With their sullen and baffling ways! They've been caught in some vampire craze; I can't praise Kids these days. Kids these days: They are all about angst and regret, As deluded as I've ever met. I don't get Kids these days.

On Valentine's Day Well, I'm the devil, and I've Got to say: my life's not boring. There's lots of evil out there, Tons of bad stuff worth exploring. My campaign is going rather well; Half the human race is heading straight to Hell. But there is one day that makes All my previous gains seem meager, That sends you flocking to my door, In tears and blindly eager. I hardly have to name the toll Before some guy hands me his soul. Everyone is lining up to pay On Valentine's Day. Though it's supposed to be a Time for gifts and soppy kisses, About which every happily Married couple reminisces, And you would expect that I would hate The ever-present cuteness of this thing...just wait, For I find Valentine's is Quite a time for fruitless dreaming; It starts in sappiness, but Frequently, it ends in screaming. You all seem perfectly content To wallow in false sentiment. Thank you, Hallmark; you've shown me the way On Valentine's Day. You want to get her a nice ring; You long for him to treat you right; You just want not to screw it up; You're hoping for the perfect night; You're anxious that she will find out; You fear he may get scared and run; I think that you've all lost your minds; That doesn't mean this isn't fun. I'm known for dooming the whole World to torment ever after, Yet this supposed day of Love wracks me with helpless laughter. It trumps any horror I could make. I didn't see this coming when I was that snake. Be jealous and be petty; Lie, cheat, gripe, complain, and smother. Keep up appearances While you're deceiving one another. It's the way you've got to be; It mainly matters what they see. Plus, of course, it matters what they say On Valentine's Day. I may get tired of it; Hearts and roses make me queasy. Besides, I must admit that It is getting way too easy. You're too eager to incur your debt. Haven't you people heard of playing hard to get? But for the moment I am Happy with my acquisition. You're queuing at the gates of Hades to demand admission. So if you don't mind, nor do I. It's not quite time for you to die. Until then, trust me: you'll do okay On Valentine's Day.

Love Song Mention of love. Mention of love. Something about birds in the sky. Mention of love. Mention of pain. Explanation of how you hurt me. Sad "ooh." Metaphor Involving a car on a lonely road. Mention of you; Expression of hope That you haven't forgotten the last time we slept together. Sad "ooh." Mention of death. Mention of love. Question about flowers of some sort. Angsty line that seems awkwardly interjected; Mention of love. Anger coming out subtly In lyrics that seem to relate to something else And are rather vaguely expressed, which just makes them deeper. Mention of love. Mention of how I can't stop wanting you, you bastard. Sad "ooh." Mention of lust. Mention of stars. Speculation that they're in your eyes. Mention of love. Mention of sex That sounds like it's not about sex So that twelve-year-old girls sing this song with their dads By accident. Sad "ooh." Mention of love. Mention of joy. Cynical jab at your manhood. Expression of desire Mixed with repulsion and show of independence. Declaration of heartbreak. Assurance that I'm doing fine. Mention of love. Mention of love. Bad rhyme. Sad "ooh."

We Protest the Robot Occupation Last Thursday, I was having coffee at a coffee shop When the explosions started tearing up the street. Now I've joined the resistance formed of several desperate human stragglers Clinging to dim hope amidst defeat. The robots hunt us down, and then they kill us one by one Or haul us off to slavery and pain, And since this is all happening in the suburbs of Vancouver, For the most part, it is happening in the rain. The human revolution's got off to what I suppose Will prove to be a very useful kind of start. We've had a few committee meetings in an empty Save-On Foods, And everybody's shown a lot of heart. We're making signs and placards, and we've started a petition; We've got almost twenty signatures so far. We'll send a forceful message to our robot lords and masters: They will tremble at how organised we are. We protest the robot occupation. We don't like being human slaves. Please stop if you don't mind, for we're afraid that we all find That we would rather not be rotting in our graves. Though we can't trust computers, elevators, cars, or phones, We have decided we won't let it get us down. We're carefully hand-lettering the pamphlets that we plan to give to All the killer robots left in town. We think that if we show them that we're sticking to our guns And that we are determined to survive, They'll have to form committees of their own so they can figure out If they should leave a few of us alive. We protest the robot occupation. We don't like being human slaves. Please stop if you don't mind, for we're afraid that we all find That we would rather not be rotting in our graves. We know our situation isn't optimal, but we Are not intending to give in without a fight. As long as we have people left to handle our opinion polls, We're pretty sure we're going to be all right. If we all band together and we make our voices heard, We'll overcome the robots with sheer will. We'll baffle and confuse them with the power of our arguments, With luck before there's no one left to kill. We protest the robot occupation. We don't like being human slaves. Please stop if you don't mind, for we're afraid that we all find That we would rather not be rotting in our graves. We protest the robot occupation. We don't like being human slaves. Please stop if you don't mind, for we're afraid that we all find That we would rather not be rotting in our graves.

I Put My Trenchcoat On Woke up one morning, Down on my luck, Whisky my only friend, And I hadn’t got a dime. Fate had me in her sights, And I was a sitting duck. That was when I found The portal through time. If you can believe it In the blink of an eye The world went strange. It’s hard to understand. I can’t accept that sixty Years have gone by. It’s as if I’m travelling In a foreign land. But since I am stuck here, I may as well try To fit in, So I’ve set up a room, Advertised my services As a P.I. I don’t know why the office Is still empty as a tomb. I put my trenchcoat on, Slip a mickey in my pocket, Straighten my fedora, Go out into the night. I wish that somebody Would tell me what an iPhone Is. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be all right With my trenchcoat on. I am a gumshoe; It’s all that I know, Beating the grimy streets For clue after clue, Drunk on despair, Knowing there are no Easy answers in anything I do. I’m fine with forensics, But you gotta see There’s a line. What’s the deal with DNA? All of this procedure Is stifling me. I wanna shoot a crook; that’s Just the better way. I put my trenchcoat on, Slip a mickey in my pocket, Straighten my fedora, Go out into the night. I wish that somebody Would tell me what an iPhone Is. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be all right With my trenchcoat on. Just yesterday night, I tried to get back in the game: Went out to a boozy joint to score me a dame. I still don’t know What “sexual harrassment” might mean. If my cases can’t come from some woman named “Trouble,” Then where will I get them? And where is the rubble? The city’s disturbingly bright and way too clean. I sit in my office, Watch the light leak Through the half-closed blinds; There’s nowhere I can go. I don’t know how to cope, And it’s only been a week. No one in this time needs The things that I know. I guess it’s ironic, ‘Cause not fitting in Is my thing, And now I’m even more outside, Watching from the margins, Drowning in gin. My cynicism’s rising On an alcoholic tide. I put my trenchcoat on, Slip a mickey in my pocket, Straighten my fedora, Go out into the night. I wish that somebody Would tell me what an iPhone Is. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be all right With my trenchcoat on. I put my trenchcoat on, Slip a mickey in my pocket, Straighten my fedora, Go out into the night. I wish that somebody Would tell me what an iPhone Is. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be all right With my trenchcoat on.

Sasquatch The wood is dark and tangled; I like how it lets me hide. The chilly damp and fog are Two benefits of living outside. I'm good with the way my life has gone. Hunt all night, feast on deer at dawn. Spend some time pouncing on That eminently chaseable sunbeam. I watch the humans talking On their cell phones all day long. They seem to need each other; It's curious, and I think it's wrong. I would rather be alone and free. That's really how it's meant to be. Damn right! And then I see Your footprints by the stream... Who are you? We're the same. I want to Know where you came From and if you Have a name; I don't have one. That's Always been fine. Forget it. My life's sweet. Freedom and Plenty to eat. Who cares if You've got feet At least as big as mine? I'm good at tracking, so I Guess that I could look for you. Perhaps our eyes will meet Across a crowded pond, and if they do, This wonderful connection will begin; Inside our hearts, we'll be akin, And so we'll dive right in And know we'll have each other forever. In my imagination, All of this will work out great, For you are clearly destined To become my heaven-sent soulmate. Are you male or female? I don't care. We'll be together everywhere. We could bring down a bear, No one's done that ever. Who are you? We're the same. I want to Know where you came From and if you Have a name; I don't have one. That's Always been fine. Forget it. My life's sweet. Freedom and Plenty to eat. Who cares if You've got feet At least as big as mine? I guess the biggest problem Really lies in what we are. Our kind is solitary; We find all that mushy stuff bizarre. If we were a couple, I would try To kill and eat you every day, and I Doubt I could justify Not driving you from my territory. On balance, I'm suspecting I'll do better all alone. I haven't even got proof That those footprints actually aren't my own. My decision makes me swell with pride. Better live without you by my side. I think I'll go and hide And tell myself our story... Who are you? We're the same. I want to Know where you came From and if you Have a name; I don't have one. That's Always been fine. Forget it. My life's sweet. Freedom and Plenty to eat. Who cares if You've got feet At least as big as mine? Who cares if You've got feet At least as big as mine?

What Would Batman Do? When I end up in a tricky Situation, and there’s no Way for me to solve it, plus There’s nowhere left for me to go, I’ve developed my own mantra That will help me think it through. When I’m in a bad dilemma, I ask, “What would Batman do?” When I’m walking on the sidewalk And there’s some guy on a bike Who is knocking down old ladies, Whom he seems to dislike, Or when I am getting coffee And somebody cuts the queue, Making me extremely thirsty, I ask, “What would Batman do?” When a couple at a movie Won’t stop talking in my ear, When a spider on my pillow Leaves me paralysed with fear, When an amateur musician Starts in on “A Boy Named Sue,” Accompanied by a ukulele, I ask, “What would Batman do? Bruce Wayne is a billionaire Whose power is that he’s Bruce Wayne. I guess he can be Batman ‘Cause inside he is in constant pain. But it may also help That he has enough money to accrue His gadgets; if I’m to be Like him, I’ll need money too. When I’m holding up the teller In the bank across the street From the jewellery store I’m robbing Next, after which thrilling feat I am planning to fence diamonds From the vault I broke into To a truly frightening drug lord, I ask, “What would Batman do?” When I’m fleeing from the coppers In a helicopter that I have borrowed from the rooftop Of some hospital whose CAT Scanner I have gone and broken Just before spreading the flu From a beaker labelled “lethal,” I ask, “What would Batman do?” I wish I had someone just like Alfred who would give advice Every time I had to make Some big decision, and it would be nice To have someone to keep Me on the righteous path. Well, anyhoo, I doubt that’s necessary; I know what Batman would do. When I’m hiding in my lair, Stacks of money at my feet, Helpless slaves in thrall around me, Musing on what I should eat After I bring down the mayor, Maybe the whole country too— Soon the world will bow before me!— I ask, “What would Batman do?” When the long and massive manhunt Leads the cops at last to me And I’m caught and tried and punished And they throw away the key And I’m called “insane,” “unstable,” “Made of evil,” “bad all through,” And I find my cell door open... I ask, “What would Batman do?”

A Lonely Christmas Out Here It’s near six o’clock now on Christmas, and you’re Just beginning to carve up the meat. Watching you, we find ourselves longing for Mirth and acceptance and something to eat. But the doors are shut fast; we are banned from the hall. It’s hard to just take it in stride. Being a zombie is no fun at all When everyone’s staying inside. And we all shrink away from the light, And dream of you running out into the night, And giving in suddenly without a fight As we feast on your pain and fear. It’s a lonely Christmas out here. The zombie apocalypse is lots of fun, All gore and indelible stains. We do so enjoy having you on the run And savour the screams as we dine on your brains. But it’s different tonight; not a one of you’s tried To shoot us or hack us in two. So now, for the very first time since we died, You’ve left us with nothing to do. And we all shrink away from the light, And dream of you running out into the night, And giving in suddenly without a fight As we feast on your pain and fear. It’s a lonely Christmas out here. Brains, brains, dreaming of brains, Dreaming of scheming to break down your door. Ding, dong, unnaturally strong, We find that we’re missing you more...and more... [Bridge, which may or may not be a cheeky version of "Silent Night"] The night’s wearing on, and the streets are still stark- -ly empty of all but the dead. It’s strange to feel wistfully lost in the dark; We generally just tear your limbs off instead. But this night is a special one, and we regret You can’t share it with us. You know, We may be monsters, but you’ll join us yet; We’re aware that you’ve nowhere to go. Soon you’ll all shrink away from the light, And dream of them running out into the night, And giving in suddenly without a fight As you feast on their pain and fear. It’s a lonely Christmas out here. And we all shrink away from the light, And dream of you running out into the night, And giving in suddenly without a fight As we feast on your pain and fear. It’s a lonely Christmas out here.