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The House of the Winticker

a house that sat on cobbler street

was all it seemed to be

the house that sat on cobbler street

was the least it was to me

we moved one day into the house

the house as white as bone

it was the day we got the key

we knew we weren't alone 

no not mice no not rats

a light that would a-flicker

a door would creek the sink would leak

we called it  the winticker 

you may say that the house is old 

that walls will crackle and creek

but i've seen it i have, a hand reaches out

with mischief it seems to seek

i'd ever only seen the hand 

attached to a gauntly arm

spindle like fingers with long yellow nails

that would surely do us harm

its skin is pale with patchy hair

the arm of an elderly bloke

but longer than me entirely so

true horror it would evoke

it'd reach out from out of the closet

from under the stairs 

from under the fridge 

and  stroke your hair

or turn on the sink 

turn on the shower

scratch up the paint

at any dark hour

while we were dining

i finally had it

i saw his long fingers 

reach out from the cabinet 

i ripped the door open

to a long wicked smile

a set of teeth rotten

and yellow as bile

our dinner we left 

We Leapt to your feet

we never went back 

to   cobler street

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