He ain’t up in the mornin’;
in the coffin he’s undead
’cause sunlight in his eyes
makin’ him a one dead.
He slurps like a dog
when the hounds start to bay—
likely to get gums bloody,
then he slumbers by day.

Digs the night time;
it’s the bite time.
Folks bled at night time,
that’s the bite time.
He’s gonna feed on you
in the night time.

He comes home from slurps;
you know, his tie isn’t neat—
it’s rimed from all his suppin’;
many blanched from his treat.
He jumps in the coffin,
countin’ sheep on his back.
The only way to get him
is with a stake attack

Not at night time—
you can’t fight crime
’cause in the night time,
that’s hi bite time.
He’s gonna feed and chew
in the night time.

C’mon, stake him!
We have found his enclosure
Spurn that “slaying is wrong” ethos.
Fear not, waste him.
You got to turn on him in day’s heat:
pound, pound, pound, pound pound!

His hunger’s killing people;
this thing we must slay.
Gunnin’ isn’t workin’—
that’s a werewolf, OK?!
Just stick it in—stake ’im:
that shows you how he’ll die
There ain’t gonna be chew shtik;
off his dust will fly.

No more bite time
in the night time,
’cause it was spike time, spike time. . . .