Wet and windy the night may be,

Wet and windy the night will be,

Thunder claps and lightning raps

at the door of an old man’s cottage.

‘Can I help you?’ the man might say.

But the night stays at bay.

‘What? Who?’ the man might say,

But all there is, is the storm that plays.

He stays bewildered as the night moves in

And gives birth to the figure he did not see.

‘Come with me,’ the figure will say

Dawned in the blackest of black.

‘Who are you?’ the man may say,

‘A friend,’ the figure will say.

‘Of the end,’ it adds as always.

A fling of the cloak-

And a burst of the coke,

and the storm continues on.