Oligarths

It's getting very dark, my dear, come closer to the fire,
The Oligarths are coming, do not provoke their ire,
I hear their heavy footfalls in the drafty midnight hall,
Their breath it is a-rasping, their claws are sharp and small.

I hear the thud of footsteps, they're upstairs in our room,
I hear them scritch-a-scratching, like beetles in tomb,
Be quiet lest they hear you, or scent our living breath,
The Oligarths are cursed, they bring the stench of death.

I hear a window creaking, the rattle of the gate,
They're heading down the avenue, it is the hand of fate,
Quick, gather up your slippers and let's run up to bed,
Oh, hello, Mr Oligarth, I trust that you've been fed?