A toll rings loud and clear throughout the musty cellar,
Through the halls of the vast dungeon at night.
I wait for one of them to come down and speak
To me about the "others," the valued, the "wise,"
It's the same thing every year, this lonely life.
I hear a creak, must be nothing, I turn on the light,
Swear I saw a ghost, still nothing.
Vaguely, I've been searching for an answer to this riddle,
It will only take a few moments of your time
To sit there between the vagabond with the fiddle,
And the one who must be low as slime.
It's your call-I ask you-for your opinion,
You laugh in my face-if I seek your words-I'm a disgrace,
Riddled with handed down problems, no given grace,
A roaring of thunder, brew of secret ingredients,
From a distance I can still hear you laughing in my face,
Speaking magic spells of strange and creepy "enchantments,"
Even from afar, even from my un-chosen wife's place.
