Boston's haunted museum displays my grave,
You see my village and its history,
The stake is old and burnt --
Legend has it that wood burns
Those that don't believe,
It's not a conspiracy.
.
The stake resurrected my mane,
A woman once shamed, made headlines over rage.
Some have claimed that my mother,
the one whose story was like a nursery rhyme,
one that disguised the "man's good time,"
re lived the embarrassment and shame,
brought upon her that wicked day.
She said that she was weak
And that no one believed;
Christianity's victim who was slain,
Sightings showed her age and grace,
ligaments bent and distorted her frame.
.
There are books that show visible accounts of the plague and dames
Villagers feared their names,
The legacy still remains,
Many visit their graves.
There are their tombstones
Which were created after villagers would randomly burn
Fire had cursed them like a spiteful torch;
The town apologized and made the stones
Hoping Looney would leave them alone —
Performative actions must be dealt with grace,
Meek had burned their human ways.
.
Before a visitor of the grave leaves, they must say thanks
Tell me that they appreciate my story
And for letting them visit my hometown,
where all is gory,
And for those that refuse a squeak
Have real sightings of me,
Where I linger like a centipede,
Through their home holes like a lullaby,
Where I wait and plot their kryptonite.
And if there's no thank you and an apology,
Fire penetrates their veins and windpipes:
.
"Welcome to The Sheep Keep,
You visit my estate and disrespect my name,
silly and vain!
You'll wish you didn't graze my land without saying thank you,
Show gratitude."
.
Always be polite
Supernatural forces linger tonight
And when it's night,
You're unscathed if your "thank you," doesn't pierce my ears tonight."
Before you roam and leave a haunted place,
always show your grace,
mortals, know your place!