Sit down by the fire. And I'll tell you a story. To send you away to your bed. Of the things you hear creeping. When everyone's sleeping. And you wish you were out here instead. It isn't the mice in the wall. It isn't the wind in the well. But each night they march. Out of that hole in the wall. Passing through on their way. Out of hell. They're the things that you see. When you wake up and scream. The cold things that follow you. Down the Boreen. They live in the small ring of trees on the hill. Up at the top of the field. And they dance on the rain. And they dance on the wind. They tap on the window. When no-one is in. And if ever you see them. Pretend that you're dead. Or they'll bite off your head. They'll rip out your liver. And dance on your neck. They dance on your head. They dance on your chest. They give you the cramp. And the cholic for jest. They're the things that you see. When you wake up and scream. The cold things that follow you. Down the Boreen. They live in the small ring of trees on the hill. Up at the top of the field. They play on the wind. They sing on the rain. They dance on your eyes. They dance in your brain. Remember this place. It is damp and it's cold. The best place on earth. But it's dark and it's old. So lie near the wall. And cover your head. Good night and God bless. Now fuck off to bed.