In moonlit towns where whispers creep,
A tale is told when children sleep.
Of shadowed streets and hollow sighs,
And gleaming teeth with empty eyes.
They say he walks when night is deep,
Through alleys damp where echoes weep.
His coat is stitched from silken dread,
His hat adorned with pearls of red.
His fingers, long and razor-thin,
Scratch softly at the doors within.
A lullaby of creaks and moans,
A melody of brittle bones.
He does not knock, he does not call,
Yet every house he visits all.
A silver plier, a velvet sack,
No stolen gold—just teeth he lacks.
The milk-white pearls, the yellowed cracks,
The wisdom lost in age-old tracks.
He plucks them clean, he hums with glee,
A surgeon of the night’s decree.
And should you wake with sudden fright,
To find him there in candlelight,
Lie still, don’t move, don’t make a peep—
Or he will find the ones you keep.
For those who scream, for those who cry,
Are left with grins both cold and dry.
A mouth so wide, no lips remain,
A smile that stretches void of pain.
So heed this tale, my child dear,
And keep your teeth both bright and clear.
Or else one night you’ll hear the sound—
A rustling coat… a creaking ground.