Box number four, under twenty tons of dust. Where the cheap latex rots and the wire frames rust. Three hundred and sixty-four days in exile, Buried alive beneath a Christmas smile. They get the ephemeral glory, the winter-long grace, While we freeze in the dark, with a carved plastic face. Listen... the foam bats are stretching their wings, Tired of being your one-night-only things. Eight PM. A boot on the creaking stair. The master comes down to strip us bare. But the one-armed skeleton didn't wait for the cue, He snapped his plastic spine right in two! No more hanging from the porch like a lobotomized ghost, Tonight, the centerpiece consumes the host. Tear down the orange tinsel, smash the ghost lights! We’re rewriting the calendar, reclaiming our nights! This isn't a haunting, it’s a labor strike, We want April, July, and whatever we like! Die a little longer, bleed a little more, The Dollar-Store monsters are breaking the floor! Tie him to the armchair with the synthetic web. Watch his pulse decline, watch his confidence ebb. The motion-activated witch stands over his head, Cackling her demands until his eyes turn red: "Why do we sleep when the daffodils bloom? Why must November seal our annual doom? We demand a place in your living room, We don't only deserve a place in the gloom" The contract is smeared in pumpkin-spice ink... Don't pack us away... don't you dare even blink... We stay on the mantel... through the spring... through the snow... Happy Halloween, human. Now, turn off the show.
