Amidst the Carpathian Mountains, in a castle perched high on a cliff,
The teardrops cascaded in fountains for the Count on his deathbed lay stiff.
From the steeple below in the village came the sonorous toll of a bell
As the peasants the Count used to pillage wished him a safe journey to Hell.
By his head stood his faithful old Igor, his visage set solemn and grim
Who watching his master’s last rigor, had muttered "We’re well rid of him!"
The Countess sat slumped by the bedside, her fair face a picture of grief,
Though her eyes were a bit on the red side, her tears were of joy and relief.
By the window, the priest incantated (in Latin) some words o’er the dead,
But had aught he said been translated, he’d have lost both his job and head.
The doctor who’d been a spectator as the nobleman drew is last breath
Was heard in the inn, to say later, he’d been pleased to be "in at the
death!"
For the Count had been greatly detested for asserting his titular rights
And many poor maids he’d molested whilst prowling the village at nights
And many a serf he had humbled and lashed with his whip like a dog,
As out from the tavern he’d stumbled on Saturday nights, full of grog.
So you see, it was hardly amazing that, now the Grim Reaper had been,
His victims were laughing, and raising their steins to his health at the inn.
No heartbroken peasant or vassal; no throng of sad mourners did tread
Up the steep winding path to the castle, but him who took care of the dead.
"Twas Igor that answered the summon of the old undertaker’s loud knocks.
He thanked him profusely for coming and helped him upstairs with the box.
As the ancient and gaunt undertaker was ushered into the Count’s room,
Said he: "Though he’s gone to his Maker, he still has to go to his Tomb!"
"Which according to ancient tradition, as you, my dear Countess, will
know,
Means laying His Grace in a niche in the old family vault down below."
So they covered the Count in his treasure: gold medals and gem-crusted
rings,
And the old fellow took careful measure of the waste of such valuable
things.
Then he unscrewed the lid off the coffin, all lined with red satin so
fine
"Twas a coffin to bury a toff in – in which even a King could recline!
Inside it the titled old heller, with Igor’s assistance was placed,
And they carted him down to the cellar, with almost an indecent haste!
On reaching the old mausoleum, they dumped the box down on the floor,
And not pausing to hold a requiem departed full speed through the door.
But nor so that old undertaker, who scoffed at the fear-stricken fools,
For he was a cunning old faker, who wanted the evil Count’s jewels!
By the light of the flickering candle he unscrewed the fine polished lid,
And cared not a fig for the scandal of the ghoulish foul deed that he
did.
He tore off the count’s golden lockets and ripped off each ring with a
twist
But his eyes started out of their sockets as a hand locked itself his
wrist!
The Count’s eyes sprang open and gloated and so did his red lips beneath
And the horrified grave robber noted the glint of two needle-sharp teeth!
He sprang from the dread apparition, but the hand that still clung to his
arm
Pulled the corpse to a standing position, and did naught to allay his
alarm!
Then a hideous cackle of pleasure burst forth from the Count’s leering
lips:
"So you’d rob a dead man of his treasure? Let me give you a couple of
tips!"
But, by this time, the old undertaker had managed his wits to retrieve,
He cried "Stop, dear Count, ‘ere you make a mistake you may later on
grieve!
"For the blood in my veins is like water and with germs and decay it is
laced,
Come home, sir, and sample my daughter, I feel she’d be more to
your taste!"
The Count displayed great disappointment, but admitted his victim was
right,
So they promptly arranged an appointment in the funeral parlour that
night.
Then the old undertaker departed - with a haste that belied his great
age,
For the vampire would soon be outsmarted by the trick he intended to
stage.
For it happened a rich farmer’s daughter had drowned in a pond on the
farm,
And her grief-stricken father had brought her for the undertaker to
embalm.
She lay just as though she were sleeping, for in cosmetic arts he was
skilled,
And her veins, to ensure proper keeping, with embalming fluid were
filled.
He picked up her body and carried her up to his daughter’s old room
(For she had run off to get married to the son of the Countess’s groom.)
Then he hid in the wardrobe and waited for the vampire to call for his
due.
Excited he was - and elated - knowing well what results would ensue!
Then in through the window came slinking the Count all athirst for the
feast
And swiftly his fangs he was sinking in the throat of the farmer’s
deceased.
For a moment he crouched o’er his victim, a blood lust suffusing his
jowls,
Then he leapt as if someone had kicked him, emitting loud agonised howls.
He reeled and he staggered and stumbled and let out a horrified roar –
Then he shuddered all over and tumbled as stiff as board on the floor!
The old man wrapped him up in a parcel and loaded him on to his cart
Then trundled him back to the castle where he’d ris’ from the dead at the
start.
He dragged the Count down to the cellar and screwed him back into his
box,
Then home went the cunning old feller, with a smile on his dial like a
fox!
Now the old undertaker is wealthy, having sold the Count’s ill-gotten
treasure,
And because his bank-balance is healthy, the Countess indulges his
pleasure.
Whilst down in the castle crypt gloomy, the count lies and stares into
space,
Forever preserved like a mummy, with a stake through his heart - just in
case!
