The moon is big, the moon is bright;
It's plain to see the bones to-night.
They're stark and sharp in its pale light.
It's plain to see the bones.

The owls are hungry where they squat,
They see things that you'd rather not,
They say things that are best forgot,
In hoots and squeaks and moans.

Their feathers light are white and bleak,
They've sharp bright claws and sharper beaks.
Not one of them's been fed for weeks.
They want to eat your eyes.

A boy who wanders through the wastes
Is doomed to fall to their grim tastes;
They peck his innards into pastes.
The child, defenseless, dies.

The feathers whirr round his remains;
Young Tom will never live again.
A pale owl hoots a dull refrain
In melancholy tones.

The moon is big, the moon is bright;
It's plain to see the bones to-night.
They're stark and sharp in its pale light.
It's plain to see Tom's bones.