obelisk

That motley drama--oh, be sure
It will not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The Scenic solitude
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued..

Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,The Curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm,
That the play is the tragedy "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

(Happy Halloween, kiddies!)