Bram Stoker's ghost is queueing

at the turnstile of the National Trust.

He's hoping for a viewing

of the abbey ruins at Whitby

the church and the plunging steps

where Lucy Westenra descended

entranced, danced to Dracula's tune

"Was Dracula real" he asks himself

as he looks far out to sea,

"or another facet, a commercial asset

of tragic history."

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When i'm done with being young

i'm gonna be the next king.

That's the way it's gonna be

are you with me?

I'll be famous obviously

and appreciate society and everything.

I wouldn't let the country down to be honest,

or let people rub me up the wrong way,

i'd make sure my family

would have somewhere to stay.

All my mates would be doing well

'cause they nev...

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In the fustian gloom of the tower

something moves to give room to spiders.

the lips of hell part with a smile

pleased with its progeny and its guile

          and the sun slinks away

          from its slit in the wall

          where archers of old

          felled the pressing horde.

Nothing has ever left these chambers

and fear congeals with rotting straw

strewn ac...

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