The Superstitious Ghost

I'm such a quiet little ghost, Demure and inoffensive; The other spirits say I'm most Absurdly apprehensive. Through all the merry hours of night I'm uniformly cheerful; I love the dark, but in the light, I own, I'm rather fearful. Each dawn I cower down in bed, In every brightness seeing That weird, uncanny form of dread- An awful Human Being! Of course I'm told they can't exist, That Nature would not let them; But Willy Spook, the Humanist, Declares that he has met them! He says they do not glide like us, But walk in eerie paces; They're solid, not diaphanous, With arms! and legs! and faces!!! And some are beggars, some are kings, Some have and some are wanting; They squander time in doing things Instead of simply haunting. They talk of 'art,' the horrid crew, And things they call 'ambitions.'- Oh yes, I know as well as you They're only superstitions. But should the dreadful day arrive When, starting up, I see one, I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive; And then- oh, then I'll be one!