If On Some Woebegone Night A Generous Christian Soul Behind An Old Garbage-Dump, Might Drop Your Proud Corpse In A Hole, When The Chaste Stars Are Nodding Their Heads And Closing Their Eyes To The Earth, There The Spider Will Weave Her Web, While The Viper Is Giving Birth; You Will Listen The Whole Long Year Above Your Cursed Bones To Wolvish Howls, And Then To Starving Witches' Moans, Frolics Of Dirty Old Men, Plottings Of Black Racketeers.