Down Pembleton Road

There lives a mystery down Pembleton Road,
Where it makes its abode with stools of toad,
And ever thick fog hanging low over its bog
That brightest light cannot penetrate —
Tis always night and filled with blight —
And you ask, what lives there but a reprobate,
Some deformed shadow lurking all around
Under naked tree branches so you hardly see,
But you know it lives in dark as thick as brick,
And that it’s been there long before the street,
And it has no name but it has staked its claim,
And no one is welcomed on Pembleton Road,
But the unwary move in some times, at least,
Until the pet-beast craves another meal
And, thus, seals the doom of strangers,
Who seemed oblivious to the curse, and so
Now find there place in the back of a Herse,
That is, if there is anything left to bury . . .
And this is the only time it makes merry
With cackling laugh that can only be heard,
Never seen . . .
There lives a mystery down Pembleton Road,
One undiscovered but still known all too well,
And at a short distance chimes the church bell
As if to punctuate this evil on Pembleton Road

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On the Night Train

What cargo do you carry as you come barreling through?
Is it good or ill to seal my destiny desperately or in ecstasy?
What passengers ride along and do they belong to the night
Or to the light? Are they kind enough to mind themselves?
And do you bring grain for the hungry soul or only pain?
Nothing is plain to see in such numinous rain; it’s insane!
But, then, what should one expect . . .? It is the night train