Improbable Escapes: The Mysterious Miseries of Franklin N. Stein

At the top of a hill, at the far edge of town,
Stands a house where a family, was once happily found.

The brickwork is crumbling, the paint is all peeled,
The windows are boarded, and the front door is sealed.

The grass is all dead, as if ravaged by drought.
No one goes in, and no body comes out.

But on a very clear evening, if your view is just right,
If you squint and look carefully, you might see a light.

At the tippety top of the rickety tower,
Swings the loneliest lantern, and it burns for one hour.

No one knows how it gets there, or who puts it out,
But it indicates someone, or something’s about.

And up at the peak, in a thick misty shroud,
Brews a storm that’s becoming alarmingly loud.

A dark cloak of droplets, punctured by brightening,
A clap, and a boom! And mad stabs of lightning!

The thunderclouds creep, t’ward the town more each night,
And slowly, our hamlet’s succumbing to fright.

And when the squall passes, if none of you speak,
You can listen, and hear what begins as a shriek.

It pierces the moonlight and rattles your bones,
And as fast as it comes, it descends, into moans.

It carries for miles, scares each man, child, and mouse,
Is something alive in that creaky old house?

A prisoner? A monster? A criminal kind?
There’s no hint and no clue, no suggestion nor sign.

So please, take a look,
And see what you find,
In the abandoned estate,
Of one Franklin, N, Stein