by Kate MacDonald
Where are you? You can speak to me. I’m aware whenever you’re close.
The surrounding air becomes much colder in the presence of a ghost.
Perhaps you are trying to scare me, well there’s no chance of that my dear,
this night vision camera and spirit box will tell me if you’re near.
There are ghosts and ghoulies around me, every hour of every day,
since I was a child, there’s not been a time when it hasn’t been that way.
Another day, another haunting, it appears that’s the way it goes.
Though the little group I have with me today will keep me on my toes.
There’s Old Bess from seventeen twenty-six with her bonnet and her beau,
Joseph who worked in eighteen eighty-one, down in Candlemaker’s Row.
Meet a flighty lass called Florence, who was “popular” in the fifties,
here’s Mrs Jones from up the road, who recalls parts of the swinging sixties.
Ghosts are not always happy, they’re mostly full of woe,
so to make these specters smile, I’m throwing them a disco.
There can be strobes, neon and a glitter ball, that’ll be all right,
then if there isn’t a short circuit, they will have to go into the light.