Who’s that knocking, knocking at our door?
Their cloths are tattered, their eyes too big;
They smell of dregs and speak in tongues.
Like trolls, they sleep under bridges,
Demanding a token from each passerby.
Cover your ears, they have a banshee wail,
loud devil music, and cry long into the night.
Like Hungry Ghosts, they feed on crumbs.
Go lock the cupboard, we can’t feed them all.
They creep alone at night in silent deserts,
Springing up where you least expect them.
One might marry your niece;
Our blood and their blood might mingle
destroying us all.
Knocking, knocking, knocking.
Who is that knocking, knocking at our door?