There is no movement while we all roast.
You ain’t gonna leave till the sunshine is toast—
you wait till that blue sky turns dark gray
then go for some fangin’, sans delay,
and folks bleed from where caries are spawned.

You’re doing just fine until the rooster crow,
then it’s back in the coffin you gotta go.
You ain’t got a life, but still you dine
on a red fluid that isn’t wine,
and folks bleed when the moon's carriage is spawned.

’cause you’ve had a Vlad day,
you have to lie down,
drank nocturnal sangria till sun comes ’round.
At day’s end you’ll go
out and make folks die;
they’re dead for a while—then on the undead side.
They’ll have a Vlad day,
but when the moon’s high
they too will go out—jugulars will get tined.
They have a Vlad day;
you have a Vlad day.

You would fear a blue-sky holiday;
you would just turn to dust and gust away.
What you need is a coffin at dawn.

You have a Vlad day,
meaning you lie down.
You’re tanked up sanguinarily so don’t frown.
Your eyes were aglow
under the moonlit sky. . .
soporific smile—rictus-like grin that’s wide
during your Vlad day.
You ain’t gonna fry;
your coffin’s so cool ’cause it’s deep in a mine.
You have a Vlad day;
this is the Vlad way.

(Oh, end of the day!!)

Some tines you got in the buccal chink;
make holes in necks when they prong.
Victims don’t make it back; they go
with you and have a thirst that’s strong,
but breath—what pong!

Vein gashin’s your passion. . .bite then scream, “Prost!”
A Type O guy,
but any bloodstream you will suck down your throat.

But for now, a Vlad day,
tonight, go to town
and swig down that sangria from veins near crown.
Type A or Type O?
classes don’t apply—
you suck it down while there is a sanguine tide,
and then a Vlad day,
but at night you strike.
The last drops congeal, and you feel fine.
And then a Vlad day.
But crave a Vlad lay,
a vamp to lay.