When evenings chill and darkness falls,
As phantoms stalk these haunted halls,
The witching hour: The bell tolls eight,
And SCITch Show rises from its grave!
A frightening freight of comedy;
A witches’ brew of sketches, whee!
You’ll shriek and cackle with delight,
And with some luck… you’ll last the night.
But now this gimmick’s worn too thin,
And this line doesn’t even rhyme.
A fearful feeling fills the air —
Come and join us… if you dare!
Sarah Allen Scully
Grant van Nostrand