Whispersoft, on cockroach feet,
Something skitters down your street,
Silently and softly creeping
To the house where you lie sleeping;
Squeezing ‘cross the windowsill,
Prowling ’round the house, until
Scenting out your cozy bed
And curling up around your head.
Whispersoft, but crystal-clear,
It speaks these words into your ear:
“What’s it feel like to be… dead?“
Heaven help you if you meet
What comes crawling down your street
Whispersoft, on cockroach feet.