autumn into winter grimly fades
I sit beneath this skeletal tree
that reaches with clutching, gnarlèd bough
t'wards a cold and distant morning sun
spy the pantomime of twisted shades
that writhe and perform fell mummery
condemned to their reel by broken vow
their danse macabre will never be done

I can't help but smile; I sip my Möet
too glad to make melancholy poet
my laugh startles the carrion crow
I'll ne'er be a Lovecraft or a Poe

and the spirits hear my joyous peal
turn their eyes on me but caper on
driven by the wail of some dread flute
a carved thigh-bone of a giant man
O, bemoan the anguish that you feel!
-who linger still when you should be gone
ensnared by some devil's pleasant suit
to please the whim of demented Pan

I can't help but smile; I sip my wine
who could mourn on a morning so fine?
the crow decries as it soars aloft
I'll ne'er be a Poe or a Lovecraft