Their house is darkened to the mow.
Your chance has come to right the wrong,
That you have waited all too long.
Spawn of the cellars, rising fast,
To seek the hell-hounds out at last:
They cloudlike through the window creep,
On those who sprawl in drunken sleep.
Dread putrefactions, find your breed;
That you may pay that awful deed;
That you may spread your bloating jaws,