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Little Morbid Morgan was a melancholy lad

Other kids were merry, but Morgan’s heart was sad

His brain was always brooding on thoughts as black as coal

The only thing ‘twas darker than his mind ‘twas his soul


On the thirteenth of the month he’d sit beside a tomb

In an old forgotten graveyard surrounded by the gloom

He’d crank the rusty handle of a tiny music player

Then the touching, tinkling strains would drift upon the air


Somewhere out of the night an apparition would appear

A radiant, diaphanous figure who was draped in gossamer

She would float about the graves as little Morgan crooned,

“White Lady, could you, White Lady, would you, tell me of your doom?”


“It was in the dead of winter, the snow was falling down

Like little drops of clouds to form a blanket on the ground.

The people of the village were huddled with each other

The young Reverend Smythe had stopped to pray for Mother.”


“He sat and read his Bible and then he joined our meal

He told my worried father how his faith would help her heal.

He was smitten by my beauty and I by his charm

Before I knew what happened, he lured me to the barn.”


“The passions of the flesh overcame the strictures of the mind

His Anglican values gave way to pleasures for a time.

I was left defiled, the guilt would duly take its toll

Darkness and depression were like weights upon my soul.”


“Consumed by misery and ashamed for being so beguiled

 But the real scandal was when I found that I was with a child.

And all about the gossip started that descended upon me

The Reverend Smythe could not be charged, it must be sorcery.”


“They drug me through the village with curses that were vile,

Accused me of witchcraft and held a mockery of a trial.

And so it was, betrayed, abused and blighted in the soul,

I was made to pay the reverend’s sin upon the gallows’ pole.”


Little Morbid Morgan heaved a heavy sigh of grief

The White Lady’s tragedy was distressing and sad beyond belief

He watched her go back to her grave then he mused aloud,

“Life is futile and so unfair, we wrapped within her shroud.


“With its heartache and its heartbreak through pain and through strife

I take solace in this knowledge; I know that I’m alive!”

Morgan rose and sauntered on, of course his heart was sad

For Morbid Morgan always was a melancholy lad.

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