He dines alone in empty rooms with sweet bouquet of withered blooms,
His teeth long rotted to the root he sucks the pulp of bruised fruit.
Gone the bearing and the grace, sad sunken eyes and charmel face,
He'll dye his hair and paint his nails and rouge the cheeks that aging pales.

Nosferatu he sleeps the restless sleep of the undead.

And when he stands before the glass no reflection does he cast,
This vile disease that taints his line burns the fabric of his mind.
He writes accursed in his bed, the wretched sleep of the undead,
The slow parade of faded friends, the long dark sleep that never ends.

His great house weeps with rank decay, he walks by night and sleeps by day,
He'll rail the Reaper, curse him low, he who waits and mocks him so.