The Lonely Garden
There is a lonely garden down the lane.
On the east main road lies its great fame.
No one is seen at the place.
As it is an abode of police complaints
People of old believed myths of the great garden.
Before the legends of the shotgun
Murder here and there
There is a reaper riding a mare.
In the belief of a ghost wearing a skull
The badly conserved garden got sadly dull.
All these lies are not mine to tell.
By the way, I live near the bay.
Not near the east main road
But surely quite far away
I don’t believe in ghosts.
At the most
But I will walk into that garden.
One far day
But not just yet…
***
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