The Watchword's Hour

When moonlight drips into the frame and darkness Marks stray souls to claim, he stands in vigil, Taking aim. The hour belongs to the Watchword. In shuttered halls where pupils sleep, He peers through keyholes counting sheep. He draws his lens, and with a sweep, The hour belongs to the Watchword. The signal flickers dark and red from the buzz Box by your bed, transmissions of this evening's Dread. And in a flash, click, click, The hour belongs to the Watchword. When mischief lulls you from your cot and focus Twists and shadows plot, he winds, He aims, he takes his shot. The hour belongs to the Watchword. Meanwhile, back at the vault... In amber light where prints are traced, He trains a dogged eye. By negatives, he stamps the fleeced and hangs 'em Out to dry. Exposed in baths, inverted, Cut in rows of numbered faces. Developed in observance aired as chilling nightly Cases. The signal flickers dark and red from the buzz Box by your bed, transmissions of this evening's Dread. And in a flash, click, click, the hour belongs To the Watchword. Restless ears should hit the sack, For he holds service unyielded back and pictures you In white or black. The hour belongs to the Watchword. The hour belongs to the Watchword. Tonight's case, out beyond the depths, It all began with a dame