Mother Goose is dead.
Undead undead undead

The story:

Picture a car full of people all dressed in black with safety pins piercings galore, ripped-stained jeans, black liquid eyeliner, and spiked hair with enough hairspray to kill the ozone layer in one foul swoop. We are driving along for a night out on the town at the latest puck club on Hollywood beach. Cassette player is blasting Bela Lugosi's dead, the windows are down, a warm breeze is blowing, and we are singing along to the song. At one point, much to my dismay, I am the only one singing the chorus. Needless to say I never quite lived that down!