| Met a man on the road to nowhere |
| And he strode with a silver cane |
| He told me where I might find lodging |
| He handed me a cross on a chain |
| The daylight was rapidly fading |
| Over hills where the darkness had filled |
| And this man he gave me a warning |
| «There are werewolves in these hills» |
| I awoke from my slumber sweating |
| I felt a chill in the gathering gloom |
| I thought I heard a sound in the distance |
| In the hills across the road from my room |
| In the darkness I reached for the relic |
| That I put on the windowsill |
| And I thought of the gentleman’s warning |
| «There are werewolves in these hills» |
| For the rest of the night sleep eluded me |
| And played cruel games with my mind |
| A chorus of anxiety filled me |
| And I prayed for the morning to shine |
| Some monsters are never proven |
| Not caught ever moving always still |
| Nut beware when you hear the warning |
| «There are werewolves in these hills» |
| In these hills |