Chronic Halloween Syndrome

Twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five.
I look in the mirror, and I see horror.
What the creator gave me makes me hoot
'Cause my Halloween costume is my birthday suit.
No make up, no fangs, no white sheets.
Every day I'm ready to go out on the street.
The boys they run whenever I am near.
The girls they scream in squeamish fear.

Witches, gremlins, splatter guts and gore.
Burnings at the cross and chambers of torture for dirty little whores.
Chainsaw massacres and voodoo dolls raise a hair,
But nothing can beat
The scare when I yell trick or treat!

Abominable cannibals, severed heads and toes.
Man-eating monkeys and circus freak shows.
Walk the plank swarming with killer ants.
Never-ending nightmares of David Bowie in tight pants.
Nothing will shake you and shock you more
Than the day I come knocking at your door!

Scrape your skin with iron combs,
And for dessert a bath of acid.
Spluttering, gurgling, 'til your mouth foams.
Sickly sweet pleasure, devilish delight.
I'm sorry dear, did I give you a fright?

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