There’s a party in the gravestones, dear
The beggarmen all dance
Poverty is not the drug
That has them in a trance

Bending moving shaking frames
No music in their rhythms
Culture found beneath the line
Beyond the social schisms

The partygoers every night
Are vagrant druggy thieves
Upon the wall of the estate agents
Each one of them relieves

More and more they number
Cohering into gangs
Each night brings drunken vampires
Each morning blunts their fangs

Retreating back to solitude
To beg, or steal, or borrow
Until the moonlight comes again
And takes away the sorrow

As bats they flock upon
The crypts beside the church
As rats they climb the cemetery walls
The ash trees and the birch

As flies they drop upon the floor
Limbs are limp from fuel
That takes a form of jab or pill
As rabid hounds, they drool

Their bodies strip and coalesce
Beside the dead they writhe
Drunken in their hopelessness
At least they are alive

– Rivenberg