Well late at night, undead gals, guys seek dining.
They must fill up before morning light.
You know, they go for all blood types, tasty,
Canines canted for a bite.
There's a warmth in that fluid that's spurting-
When vegans are tapped, they're called "Blud Lite."
Vamps invade, then they suck, and it's hurting,
But the pain is the least of your plight.

Now on a prom miss they lunch so completely;
Soon undead, she is first turning blue.
For gore they're thirsting, screaming, "Feed me!" Draining
The veins, restraining a chew.
It won't clot, what Nadsat names "red kroovy,"
Lingo of Alex and his Droog crew, yeah.
Vamps slurp your mainline; they'll teeth it tasting.
They wear tuxedos, not muumuus.
They'll suck till your face is pasty.

A vamp will champ on a vein and he'll score ya;
You'll get a leeching then a crusty brown,
Their bloodlust makes you a goner
Then a burping sound sounds.
Next, you'll walk with them all, kroovy scorer.
A staked heart is what brings you down.
It's bloodsport that makes you an adorer
Of a bite to the neck, where vein's found, found,
Bite on the neck, where vein's found. . . .

Great taste!

So, vamps are watching the clock;
When the darkness stops--
Gotta get to the coffin.

No! Afraid of sunlight;
It treats them most unkind.
From its rays, get away!

No! Noo! They see it and they scream,
'cause its beams will turn them into goo, euw!
Gotta hurry, crawl
To the coffin's pall
Where they can sleep all
Day, until nightfall.

(Until no sol, oh. . .")


. . .how that body is starting to quiver,
And your tongue, slurping gland, getting wet.
You got some hemo to spout. . .um, tasty!
It's such a delicious fress.
And you'll suck on the vein till you're breathless,
Then a breast-fress--just gum the tit's top, yeah!
Some slobber and drool--you could care less,
'cause you're a ghoul--they don't crave no cl*t, c**k,
Ohhh noooooooooooooo!

Biting's the love that you've found,
Nightly you sup till you drown,
Dining on blood brings you 'round,
Biting when sun has gone down,
Biting on nuns in their gowns,
Biting for fun all 'round town,
'nines clear your gums; you chomp down,
Bright is the sun--brings you down,
Knife-like, the hunk of wood found,
Die when that hunk's pounded down.