In London Town, the children played, the kittens purred, the flowers bloomed,
The adults laughed, the horses neighed, for no one knew they all were doomed.
Yes, all within the world was right when Death sneaked into town that night.
Beneath a haunted summer moon, upon a flute that whistled flat,
He played a slow, hypnotic tune that summoned every flea and rat
Who came from cellar, slum and glade to march the Devil’s plague parade.
Searching streets from side to side, the weakest souls with sword he struck,
Then left a token on their hide to signify the loss of luck.
For no one touched would e’er be saved, ‘twas six mere hours from spot to grave.
The wealthy fled to distant hills, doors were bolted, shutters locked,
But none could stop the morbid chills when death stood on the stoop and knocked.
Inside, they wept and fought with fate but, patiently, he’d smile and wait.
Sickness turned into despair, howls of terror, dreadful shrieks,
They echoed through the London air for weeks and weeks and weeks.
But panicked cries and wailing tears were only music to his ears.
One ghastly year that madness reigned and when Death fin’ly had withdrawn,
The price was tallied and explained: one hundred thousand souls were gone.
And London Town, in stark reverse, returned to life without the curse.
On city streets, the children played, the kittens purred, the flowers bloomed,
The adults laughed, the horses neighed, for every soul knew he was doomed.