It came up from the wetlands, under Waverly Hill
It came, quiet and crazy, then it stood perfectly still
It stunk of the tunnel, it stunk of dying too young
It had ash on its eyelids and it had snow in its lungs
and the evening came running, like a slave at its beck and call
Its girls hide in letters, and they play in its halls
Its boys sleep in garbage, and they come when they're called
It, cringing, comes at you its teeth chattering in time
It cracks at its sternum, and it's light of its mind
It whispers and worries, as the vandals on watch unwind
It fell at Wood-haven, and lay splintered and cold
on a heavy foundation, sinking into the soil
It stinks of the tunnel, and its casts are undone
It's got ash on its eyelids, it's got blood on its tongue
So in a bed of old rafters it takes the wind to its lungs and howls"¦