No, please don’t come around
to my home when you’ve grown
into what will make a sound
that when intoned chills to the bone.
Don’t be ghoul, I am begging you!

Baby, you’re looking like Vlad,
and you’re filling me with dread.
I look on you aghast,
and it’s because you’re undead.
Don’t be ghoul. What am I to do?
You don’t want no other lunch,
tasting with your big fangs that go CRUNCH!

Don’t want drinking from me
in a jugular way.
Your canines primed to plumb me—
you’re not same as you are by day.
Don’t be ghoul. Would you please just shoo!
You’re a vampiric tart;
I guess, baby, I’ll have to stake your heart.

I’ll go and see the preacher
and get myself a cru-
cifix and rosary
and procure some garlic too.
Don’t be ghoul—I just can’t love you.
You don’t want no other lunch
that to suck my serum, a whole bunch.

Don’t be ghoul—gone astray have you.
Don’t be ghoul—go away, please do.
You have a nocturnal lunch;
tomorrow morn, you’ll get a stake punch.