The boiler room breathes in the basement of sleep Where the rusted pipes sweat and the shadows run deep A striped wool skin and a scorched, melted face He’s the king of the cellar, the god of this space Don’t close your eyes, don’t succumb to the drift The boundary of logic is starting to shift One, two, he’s coming for you Three, four, better lock the door. Welcome to the nightmare, the bastard of a thousand souls Where the dream is a furnace and he stokes the coals In the boiler of the mind, where the children scream You can never wake up from the Elm Street dream Local reports indicate a resurgence of sleep-related fatalities. The Springwood parents buried the secret in gasoline and fire. But the memory has claws. The memory never stays dead. Steel fingers scraping on a lead-lined wall In the house on the corner, the hallway grows tall The jump rope skips to a rhythmic thud And the fountain in the bed is a geyser of blood. Welcome to the nightmare, the bastard of a thousand souls Where the dream is a furnace and he stokes the coals In the boiler of the mind, where the children scream You can never wake up from the Elm Street dream "I’m your boyfriend now," the handset speaks As the porcelain cracks and the floorboard creaks From the junkyard dog to the dream warrior’s light He feeds on the terror in the middle of the night Five, six, grab your crucifix Seven, eight, stay up late. The furnace flares with the heat of the past A legacy of embers that was built to last The tower of the dream-pool, the soul-vessel’s weight He’s the architect of every twisted fate From the junk-pile junkyard to the cathedral of glass He’s the shadow in the mirror that will never let you pass. Through the power of the myth and the fear in the bone He harvests the terror that the town has sown A comic book hero or a wizard of the mind It doesn't matter what armor you think you can find The glove is the truth, and the sweater is the mark Of the predator who waits in the deep, quiet dark. "It’s a boy!" the nun whispers in the asylum of stone The product of a hundred who left him alone From the first house on Elm to the meta-real world The razor-edged fingers are always unfurled The credits are rolling, the heartbeat is slow But the nightmare is the only thing he’ll ever know. The mirror is cracking, the coffee is cold The story of Springwood is a century old You can bury the bones, you can douse them in lye But a legend in the dream-world can never truly die. He’s the master of the puppet, the dream-child’s dread The final girl is screaming, but she’s already dead Nine, ten, never sleep again.
