In the heart of the city, under the jaundiced moon, Lies an old McDonald’s, where shadows loom. In this realm of forgotten fries and spectral shakes, An eerie chorus of whispers, the dead night wakes.
Through the fog-licked windows, grim grins do peer, A playland abandoned, echoes of laughter yesteryear. Golden arches once bright, now a ghoulish glow, In the haunted kitchen, things are stirring slow.
Beneath its sign, where the ravens roost, A phantom crew, their life’s warmth lost, With hollow eyes and spectral smiles, Prepare your meals in spectral styles.
A ghostly fry cook, translucent and lean, Flips phantom patties on a spectral screen. His laughter’s a whisper, his gaze a frost, In this realm of souls forever lost.
On the counter, sits a ghastly meal, A Happy box, an unearthly ordeal. A toy inside, cackles with spectral mirth, A memento from the underworld, for what it’s worth.
There’s a sizzle in the air, like a banshee’s wail, A flicker in the mirror, faces gaunt and pale. A cold hand reaches out, an icy touch, McFlurries never felt so much.
In the drive-thru lane, a spectral car, Drives endlessly circling, but never gets far. An ethereal voice in the speaker crackles, “Might you want apple pies with those shackles?”
Beware the craving in the deep of the night, When the Golden Arches gleam with phantom light. Tread carefully, under the ghostly moon’s glow, In the haunted McDonald’s, where the spectral winds blow.
