What is that ugly thing I see
Which follows, follows, follows me,
Which ever way I turn or go?
What is that thing? I want to know.

If I but turn to left or right
It does the same with all its might;
It looks so ugly and so black
When o’er my shoulder I look back.

Sometimes it runs ahead of me,
Sometimes quite short it seems to be,
And then again it’s very tall;
I don’t know what it is at all.

I’ll climb into my little bed,
And on my pillow lay my bead,
For when I’m there I never see
That thing in front or back of me.