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Barry Bostwick
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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 shattered halls where pupils sleep
He peers through peepholes, counting sheep
He draws his lens, and with a sweep
The hour belongs to the Watchword
The signal flickers, dark and red
From the buzzbox by your bed
Transmissions of this evening's dread
And in a flash
Click, click
The hour belongs to the Watchword
When mischief longs you from your cot
And focus twists and shadows plot
He winds, he aims and 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 fleece
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And hangs them 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 buzzbox 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 on nude backs
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.
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