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I had this poem posted before on front page and inadvertantly deleted it.
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There is an old house on Sycamore Street,
All battered and peeled, and weather-beat,
With naught in the windows but shards of glass,
With nearly a decade of unmown grass,
All overgrown with nettles and weeds,
Briers and thistles, and cocklebur seeds.
If you peek inside of the house by the door,
It's dark in there, and what is more:
It's haunted! Oh, yes,
That's what I've been told;
That's why it's still empty
And never been sold.
At night when the wind goes whistling through
There's moaning and groaning and cries of "woo!"
And high in the rafters so dark and still
A whisper is heard with a deadly chill,
And down in the basement dank and cold:
A squeak, and a creak; and a "bong" is tolled.
And somewhere way down in the mold and the must
There's blood mingled with dirt and dust:
And bodies! Oh, yes,
That's what they all say;
Dead, buried, and rotting
In oozy-wet clay.
One night when the moon was hid by a cloud,
When the dark was as dark as a dead man's shroud,
I snuck to that house on Sycamore Street,
What I saw that night put lead in my feet,
Turned my blood cold inside of my veins,
Seized up my joints in vices and chains,
And took my last breath with a rasping sound,
And lowered me down into the ground:
I'm buried! Oh, yes,
From head to my feet;
NOW I HAUNT THIS OLD HOUSE
ON SYCAMORE STREET!
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