Part I
The house is as haunted as its name,
The house really isn’t the same!
The people in it are dead and gone,
The trees and bushes are not cut;
There is a graveyard past the woodshed hut.
The graveyard is covered with leaves and moss,
Leaves that the wind has tossed,
To be tossed again no more;
One day like them in the sky I’ll soar;
Only to be known as them no more.
The rain is streaming down,
And there they are lying safe and sound,
While the rain beside them pours all around.
Low! A car pulls up to the house,
Yet there they are still lying as quiet as a mouse,
The lightning flashes and hits the ground;
With a loud and bellowing sound;
Yet the still it do not hear;
Even though it is loud and clear.
Why can’t you it hear?
Don’t you know its loud and clear?
We are the dead do you expect us to hear,
The things that to you sound loud and clear?
We are the dead and you are alive and you can hear things we can’t,
Don’t you know you’re waking the dead? Go away you little scant.
The rain is coming down in torrents,
Yet there they are lying dormant;
I thought this house would look better in Spring,
But no, not even when the birds begin to sing.
Part II
There is darkness everywhere,
There is lightning in the air;
There the lady ghost sits in her chair,
Look at the car sitting by the house over there.
The skeleton in the locked trunk,
By now hath stunk,
Until he could stink no more. . .
In that trunk sitting by the attic door.
Is he the dead that must be respected like the others,
Fathers, daughters, husbands, wives, and Mothers?
Must we be so quiet as a mouse,
That we aren’t heard in that dark old house?
Must we so soon go away?
And never again here we stay?
There is an air of creepiness about the place,
And they that are buried there do not run the humane race.
They were cold ever since that night,
When their family saw and told the sight.
Yet they so alive alive seem,
To me it is but a dream,
While I sit beside the clogged up stream
This place is haunted, I could scream!
Yet I keep it all in,
I can hear that dead old hen,
Still clucking her evening song,
Almost all the night long.
And while she’s dead I know she’s not,
It was her I loved a lot!
The big old rooster isn’t here though to scare her anymore,
Perching up on his perch behind the door,
He was a Rode Island Red,
And he isn’t here because the butcher cut his head
"I am so sorry," now I said.
* __Marian__