The Twilight Man comes to my door, And taps, a-taps on the wood. The old, oak door that my grandfather made, When the world was new, and good.
One, a-two, a-three, he knocks, And then his hand is still. His lamb-skin glove an inch away, And I feel that familiar chill.
I dare not obey his beck and call, I have not been tempted yet. His tap is as soft as the nest of a snake, But within the nest, lies threat.
He taps once more, and twice again, Persistent, but just the same. And every night I wait for dawn, And play the nightmare's game.