Which took the shape of an old account,
Twice in the week, I remember well,
He banged my knocker or twanged my bell.
If he found me without any cash to spare,
He called me names from that old arm-chair.
Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls,
Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls,
Visit that seat, and around it swarm
In every possible shape and form.
My life is a torture, a perfect curse—