There's a lady on the washing line,
I could swear it, she's there,
She's got long wavy fingers
and black tousled hair,
By her toes does she dangle,
at an upside-down angle,
In the neighbours backyard,
if you're asking me where.
And she waves in the wind,
On a cool autumn day,
And I can't surely know
if she's gazing my way,
For she's twisting and turning,
My stomach is churning,
And her eyes are black pits
and they're empty, I'd say.
When I come to her door,
Someone answers it fast,
And she looks just like her,
but not quite as thin cast
And her eyes seem quite sunken,
And her stature is drunken,
Of the two form's I've seen her,
The other I prefer.
For those eyes, though they're there,
Nearly stopped my poor heart,
More invisibly horrid,
Than any foul art,
So I never more came,
To that lonely doorframe,
And I hoped that from then on,
We'd forever now part.
But the lady on the washing line,
Still causes me grief,
When she waves and she flutters,
Like a great ghostly leaf,
For that thing, without eyes,
Surely hides a surprise,
and I think she's a sheath worn
by something beneath.
YOU ARE READING
Never told Nursery Rhymes
PoetryAre these the sort of things you like, my dear? the stories and the rhymes that make you shake? are you the sort who seeks darkness and fear? I surely hope you are, for your own sake. In here you'll meet the fear who has a face, in here you'll feel...
