Spectral figures in the gloaming,
pray, forsake your restless roaming,
by the turgid ocean foaming
in the moonlight, pale and drear:
Time it is to do the hokey,
time it is to do the pokey!
(Switch your iamb for a trochee,
poet with the haunted ear!)
Stick your left foot in the middle,
shake it, quake it just a little!
Hark, now, hear the Stygian fiddle
play a sad and mournful dirge!
Time to switch feet, change your paces;
stick your right foot in the spaces
void of dancers, void of graces:
tremble, if you get the urge.
Turn, revolve, O spectral dancers!
Twist, you rustic necromancers!
Roses plagued by hidden cancers
never knew your dark delight!
Death will end our tale, it's certain,
cover with his shroud-like curtain
all these figures, fleet and flirtin',
by the full moon's eerie light.