Son of Bosch, Son of Man, son of an unholy clan,
Think you're wise, think you're better? Think you can put us in fetter?
So it is, so you can, purge us in your master plan,
Leave your mark, leave your letter, but our ghosts shall haunt the debtor.

Ghosts of the living, ghosts of the dead,
Don't be afraid, they're just in your head.
They just don't remember, they often are wrong,
So shoo them away to where they belong.

If they speak of secrets, fine, listen a spell,
But what you already think is what they oft tell.
A fraction of spirit, a piece of what was,
For soul they have not, and minds full of fuzz.

Maybe truth speaks, and maybe a lie,
Maybe a flicker of light in the eye.
Ghosts of the living, ghosts of the dead,
They are but puppets and dolls in your head.

Hush little baby, don't you dare cry,
Or you'll regret it, need I say why?
Dagh is just outside, he's right at the door,
He's got plenty souls, he wants plenty more.

He'll reach in your cradle, he'll take you away,
And where he takes you, you always will stay.
And in your cradle, he'll leave a surprise,
A baby just like you, but dead in the eyes.

The baby won't cry, the baby won't mess,
The baby won't spit up on Mama's new dress.
Baby will be good, but won't take a breath,
Baby will be cold and clammy like death.

Dagh will go bye-bye, and take you along,
With all of the children who've been bad and wrong.
But if you be quiet, and if you be good,
This won't happen, and you'll stay where you should.

King of Moltpaa, King of the Dead,
Look out! He's hiding right under your bed!
Now he is nothing, no fur, no, just bone,
And he rules over no-one from his musty old throne.

But he wants subjects, and have them he will,
So he steals souls, 'til he's had his fill.
Pull up the covers, and don't meet his eyes,
Stay safe in bed, that's the way to be wise.

So stay away from the markers, now don't be a knave,
Or we'll be sore when we dig you your grave.
For under those markers, the tunnels still lie,
And if you disturb them, you surely will die.

For they lead to his riches, in coffer and chest,
In his great city to the north and the west.
In that great city, the snicjers all reign,
Though they wail and they chitter and cry out in pain.

For good King Kroz, he took all their fur,
Then they cried out to see how ugly they were,
So when they did wail, he blinded each eye,
When that wasn't enough, he bade them to die.

They cursed and they cursed, with each dying breath,
They pledged that they'd plague him, even in death.
For if any fool should go out to the wild,
They'd be waiting to grab him, a curse upon Kroz' child.

They'd mock Kroz, they'd mock him, and repeat his spell,
For since it had doomed them, they knew it too well,
And that is why "snicjer" is from them oft heard,
For of King Kroz' spell, it was the last word.

But of those foul people, that wasn't the last,
For good King Kroz wanted to remember the past.
He took three of their number, while they were so weak,
And let them all live, these rotten old Skreeks.

These threesome were foul, they weren't very nice,
They certainly weren't friendly like good little mice.
And sadly they multiplied, as is the Skreek way,
So their children are with us to this very day.

King Kroz had a notion, to spite the old rats,
If they tormented his children, he'd deal well with that,
He adopted those Skreeks, and made them his own,
To see how the snicjers would act with this shown.

But the snicjers, they wouldn't, they couldn't be better,
They followed their curse to the last blasted letter.
But it's only ironic, it's only just fair,
That they prey on their progeny as easily there.

So no matter your birth, you'd best take good care,
For old King of Moltpaa is sure to be there,
He haunts all the ruins, where pools churn and bubble,
So stay far from him, and you'll stay far from trouble.

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