Silent, silent is the night.
Is dark except for some moonlight,
Making a square shaft on the floor.
Night winds chill you to the core.
The shadow stalks across the floor.
Morphing color to the black of his heart,
His dark eyes shining,
Like the fire of rage inside him,
Whining calls of agony ring in his ears,
Rivers of blood rage him away,
Their red froth foaming at the top,
Him wiping them away,
He is a mop.
No he's not he is a panther,
Always beating out his contenders,
Making that water red with blood,
The blood of those who fell pray to him.
It is he, who goes bump in the night,
Inflicting the fear,
Inflicting the fright,
Inflicting the horror of reality.
Making it red so he can see,
But not his prey,
Oh, no way.
Only the bump in the night.
Yes, there is a bump in the night,
His eyes, his hate,
All shining bright.
That shadow lurking across the floor,
Oh of course that's him!
Reaching silently for the door,
Of the small child's bed,
So the water can be shaded a darker red,
For the blood of youth,
Is more scarlet,
Than the blood of those who have heard bumps before.
A muffled scream cut short by claws,
Stains Bumps world dark red once more,
He leaves his trademark on the door,
The claw slash and the words for,
“Bump in the night,”
In his dead tongue,