Under a funeral moon we march.
Two leagues to the earthen grave.
Polished oak burden on our backs;
the soul contained can’t be saved.
In unison our procession steps,
slowly walking the ancient road.
Soon past the cemetery gates;
to the mortal journey abode.
The priest reads his scripture.
By torchlight we bury the dead.
The body is weighted by rocks;
a stake driven through the head.
Corpse musicians play the tune,
as the deceased’s family mourns.
May our village be free of curses.
Rituals insure no vampire is born.