The Haunted Disco

When it’s half past three in the morning
right through to break of day, 
a phantom DJ opens up
for the dead to come and play. 

The coloured lights are flashing, 
and the crowd are on their feet, 
but there’s no sound of them dancing
to the ghostly disco-beat.

When there’s ice between your shoulders, 
and the hairs rise on your neck, 
and you don’t know who you’re dancing with 
at the haunted discotheque.

When you daren’t look at your partner, 
and you fear their bony hand, 
the go-go ghosts all boogie
to an ancient, nameless band. 

The graveyard sounds are all around
the mist drifts everywhere, 
but the ghastly crowds in mini-shrouds
rave on without a care. 

When there’s ice between your shoulders, 
and the hairs rise on your neck, 
and you know you’ll dance for ever 
in the haunted discotheque.

From Spooky Poems. Published by Bloomsbury, 2001.