When I was just a boy of ten,
My father took me on a treck
From our house upon the hill
To the valley down below.

He showed me where I need to duck
And army crawl down through the muck
With briarpatch above you
Through the muddy soil go:

This path leads to the garden where my father’s corpses grow.

It’s there you’ll find my granny’s head,
And arms and legs of Auntie Jen.
The many planters filled
With bits of people that I know.

Here is the tongue of Mrs. Pluck,
It was that teacher’s rotten luck
To catch dad on a bad day,
So away she had to go.

She’s chopped up in the garden where my father’s corpses grow.

And if you look here to the left
You’ll find the social workers dress
Her body is inside it still,
In soil to her elbows.

And here now are the eyes
Of the neighbor full of lies
Who showed mother our hiding
Place nobody was to know.

Meddlers go in the garden where my father’s corpses grow.

My mother was the first to get
Potted here then came the rest.
He says he never will let
Them take me, for you know

A boys place is with his father,
See that’s why he had to slaughter,
Those who made attempt to bother,
Or misfortunately wandered,
Just a little bit too close.
These he simply had to kill.
No one can ever save me from
Our haunted house upon the hill.

For if I try to run
He’ll know
And if I try to run
I’ll go
Down in the secret garden
Where my father’s corpses only grow…

in number.



Recommendations for today are a couple of fun whimsical ones…