We do not slake our thirst with beer,
or ale, water, or wine.
We do not sip at cups of glass,
all polished to a shine.
Our throats are scorched with acrid pain
that burns through day and night.
It drowns us in a feral wrath
and fills our souls with spite.

There is only one way we can feed it
and this is how it's done.
We prowl the shadows, skulk the dark
'til the setting of the sun.
Then we emerge, on leather wings
or in clouds of pitch-black mist.
Our forms concealed within the night
through which we prowl and twist.

And then we find you, foolish one,
out late and all alone.
And when we do, you'll feel a chill
rush through your flesh and bone.
You cannot run, you cannot hide
and you cannot cry for aid.
You cannot fight us with your guns
or pathetic iron blades.

We draw you in with silver tongues
and eyes that burn with glee.
Your limbs fall lax, your head rolls back
and your eyes no longer see.
We hold you close, open our mouths
and drink your life force down.
Two marks are left upon your neck
as you plummet to the ground.