Ain’t seen by day,
The clones on the Hill:
These men and gals rip your skin off with the intent to kill.
But nonetheless, in we vote them,
Even though we can see they’re ghouls,
A pestilence worse than cancer,

Ugly ghouls on the Hill.
When the sun’s going down,
They will rise, these undead,
And maraud through your town.

Hell there’s to pay
Each time this crowd
Open their blood-drowned voice boxes,
Chawing slurpingly loud.
Too late by the time we fear them
And we learn that they’re on the take.
It’s useless to light a votive

’gainst these ghouls on the Hill
When the sun’s going down,
They will rise, these undead,
And suck brains from your crown.

From your crown, your crown. . . .

And they never listen to us,
That’s because they are ghouls.
We can’t fight them,

These ghouls on the Hill
When the sun’s going down,
They will rise, these undead,
From the damp D.C. ground.

From the ground, the ground. . . .