In a gallery haunted and dim, Where the shadows danced on a whim, An easel stood tall, With a ghostly sprawl, Of portraits that seemed to swim. With brushes that whispered of dread, And canvases painted in red, The palette did creep, As the colors would weep, While the specters of artists long dead. A skeleton sketched with a grin, Drew a monster that lurked from within, With each stroke of fright, It sprang to the night, And the viewers all fled with a spin! So if you should