H.P. the Writer
Wasn't happy so we're told
With his horrid health
and his lack of wealth
he wrote tales to make blood cold
H.P. the Writer
Got an idea in his head
We weren't meant to know
of the things below
He would make up more instead
There must have been a reason
for the strange names that he chose
When you first read of Cthulhu
You couldn't pronounce it, we all know
H.P. the Writer
Shuffled off this mortal coil
Now in Providence
he's behind a fence,
buried underneath the soil