A gloomy old Norwegian was penning down a play
When a spectral supernatural bloke arrived one rainy day,
He said “I am the ghost of Christmas Past and I’ve come to stay with you,
I’ll have the room next door to yours, it’s got the better view.”
“Now hold on just a minute, Ghost,” old Henrick did reply,
“Just have the bloody decency to stay down when you die!”
“Don’t worry, Hen,” the ghost replied, “I’m not the only one,
All your long-dead folks are due, relax, it will be fun!”
And sure enough, just as he spoke, dead Ibsens did arrive,
Forty generations strong, they fairly filled the drive,
The house it bulged from door to seam, with spectres it was full,
They filled the house and barns and sheds, and ev’n the swimming pool.
“Now just a bleeding second,” our Henrick bravely cried,
“You can’t be here, Aunt Ragenhild, I’m certain that you died.
But never mind, now that you’re here, I’ll write you all a part,
If I must share my quarters then I’ll turn it into art!”
So, scholars, with your essays, take heed of what you hear,
The ghosts in Ghosts were really ghosts, and stayed for o’er a year.