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The Spirits of Spookville


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.

Inspired by comments found here.

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