Under the arc of the weather stain boards
Ancient goblins, and [bad word] out of the ground, not making a sound
The smell of death is all around
And the [bad word] and the cold wind blows

No one cares and nobody knows

I don't want to be buried in a pet cemetery

I don't want to live my life again

I'll follow Victor to a sacred place
There ain't no dream I can escape
Molars and fangs and clicking of bones
Spirits moaning among the tombstones
When the night [bad word] and the moon is
bright
Someone cries and something ain't right
 [bad word] 

The moon is full, the air is still
All of a sudden I feel a chill
Victor is grinning, flesh rotting away
Skeletons dance, I curse this day
And on the night when the wolves cry out

Listen close and you can hear me shout