the ghost who walks, she’s on the prowl
for the man she loved, he laid her down
and in the tall grass he kissed her cheek
but with a knife in his hand he plunged it in deep
she looked at him with pleading eyes
he softly spoke, “my dear the love has died”
and then he muffled her desperate cries
under the moonlight
the ghost who walks, she’s on the prowl
wanders in the moonlight, she’s crying to herself
cause his eyes never once looked cruel
but the moon in the blade shimmered like a jewel
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