This unholiest of unholy nights.
Filled with fear, and might and fright.
I surrender slowly, surely.
The darker passions growing purely.
Neither Faust nor Gray yet my soul is not my own.
It belongs to my darkest side which with my own contempt I've grown.
To face the the lady pale and full.
And hear the cry of a bestial fool.
"Who cries out on the brightest nights?" The villagers query, ever contrite.
"It is the creature of man and beast. Who forgets his humanity, and on fear shall feast." So answers the gypsy who know the lore.
As she locks her window and barres her door.
So melt your mothers silvery, and beware.
For the wicked loup garou will do more than scare.
A curse come from a patron saint, and once a week my soul shall taint, itself with blood of victims pure. And my bloodlines damnation.