by Shel Silverstein
I dare you all to go into
The Haunted House on Howlin’ Hill,
Where squiggly things with yellow eyes
We’ll creep into the moonlit yard,
Where weeds reach out like fingers,
And through the rotted old front door
A-squeakin’ on it hinges,
Down the dark and whisperin’ hall,
Past the musty study,
Up the windin’ staircase--
Through the secret panel
To the bedroom where we’ll slide in
To the ragged cobweb dusty bed
Ten people must have died in.
And the bats will screech,
And the spirits will scream,
And the thunder will crash
And we’ll sing with the zombies
And dance with the dead.
And howl at the ghost
And--come to think of it what do you say
We go get some ice cream instead?
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