• My House

    There's something kinda funny in this town
    something kinda eerie in these streets
    (But happy is the merchant man
    fat are his wife and child'r'en)

    We wonder when we cannot sleep
    and steam the brew of the dark roast bean
    (but rich, the teachers build their homes
    while students, hungry, live on prose)
    We shop the cheapest faire to eat
    when vittles scarcely match their meat
    and streets outside are streets discreet
    patched glowing squares of window heat

    Something kinda funny, I say
    that you can't see in the light of day
    It roams the sidewalks nightly, lonely
    past our windows bright and homely
    Something eerie in these streets
    force your cold neck into stiff retreat
    (While knowledge prickles down your spine
    You're curious, but avert your eyes)

    And how could you ever hope to sleep
    in this our town of Bastion's Creek?
    (But merry walks the mother-hen
    chicks in tow, scared and thin)

    So quickly don you, coat and cap
    Promise yourself an hour's nap
    and into the silent street you bound
    leashing your fear like an angry hound
    That funny something is what you seek
    That something eerie that makes men weak
    And turning 'round give a startled cry
    (the noise a dove makes before it dies)

    In this our town of Bastion's Creek
    who is the watchman of our dark streets?
    I'm far too modest to claim it's me
    But the look on your face, I wish you could see.

    biggrin