People believe in ghosts, apparitions, spooks, phantoms
Call 'em what you like
The spirits of the dead floating about forlornly
No longer having to contend with the vagaries of life
Yet somehow envious of those still drawing breath
They moan and groan ever so dramatic
Angrily slamming doors
And at two in the morning stomp around in the attic
Haunting places where they died
Seeking vengeance for having been killed
Or perhaps jealous of those who survived
Which, when you consider all those who met their end
In wars, acts of terrorism, murders, careless accidents
In numbers to big to comprehend
I mean, they would number
In the billions
You have to wonder
How is the world such a quiet place
Especially at night
It makes me think
That ghosts must be polite
And use their inside voices
...or whisper
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