(or How I Will Never Spend Another Night in a Cemetery)
A boy keeps his word, or I've so often heard,
And his name will spread hither and far;
I feel a bit less than cheery in this old cemetery,
Seeing many a cloud, but no star.
The wind waxed much quicker, much colder and shrill,
My watch said ten minutes past ten;
Eight hours to go, just eight hours to chill,
Rite of Passage I'll sure earn by then.
And the shadows were many, and matches weren't any,
And mausoleums are cold on your back;
And you're thinking of breakfast and try to be steadfast,
To make up for the courage you lack.
Far from mind was that dreaded, now embedded thought,
That I'd lose and would draw that short straw;
My composure's now crumbled and far overwrought,
"Was that really the moon I just saw?"
Half hour past midnight, just six more to go,
The leaves making nests around my shoes;
The lights in the valley from far down below,
Were flickering Tom B. Stone's Blues.
And the shadows were many, and matches weren't any,
And mausoleums are cold on your back;
And you're thinking of breakfast, and try to be steadfast,
To make up for the courage you lack.
Just then for an instant, a flame not far distant,
Pierced the dark like a star through these stones;
So I just sat there, with a dull, blanked stare,
Afraid? To my soul! To my bones!
It was then that I swore that I'd daybreak adore,
For I'd one day a grave of my own;
But this Hallowsday feeling just sets my heart reeling,
Signed,
Yours truly,
Thomas B. Stone.
₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪ ₪
And the shadows were many, and matches weren't any,
And mausoleums are cold on your back;
And you're thinking of breakfast, and try to be steadfast,
To make up for the courage you lack.
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