There is a house low on a hill,
In a town some call Spookville,
Known as the Big Yellow House –
A bright façade spooks inside douse
With fear which dirties the windows
And makes wind whistle when it blows.
Haunting Hector moves knickknacks
And raises hair on people’s backs;
Unseen ghosts ride in iron pots
Around kitchens like live robots;
The one they call the Black Giant
Calls more spirits with rant and chant.
Perhaps it was due to a ghost
One old lady abandoned post
By falling down from the rooftop
Into a rest home – Oops! Kerplop!!
The ghosts live on but she is long gone.
Perhaps her pet parrot was their pawn?
Sometimes upstairs they all will dance –
Not the typical monster mash prance –
And Misters Thoreau and Houdini
Will come join in the revelry
At the heaven closest to Earth
Where spiritualism made birth.
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