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It was just last fall, when all was cold and damp;
the four of us were looking for a good place to camp.
We'd get soaked in our tents, and what about dry wood?
"We could stay at Beasley's Cabin," said Christine.
"If they would just give us the keys, then I know that we could..."

West of Mt. Pleasant on a river called The Skunk,
with blankets, food and hot spiced rum to get drunk.
It was a cozy little cottage, though the rain was pouring down.
We explored an empty cabin right next door.
Just inside the door there was firewood to be found.

Then Tony, Kathy, and Christine all went for a walk.
I stayed to tend the fire and to hear the river talk.
They crossed an ancient railroad bridge, afraid of falling through.
There were people waiting on the other side.
Ahead in the mist, they could just make out two.

A fat old farmer and a sickly-looking man
who had a scar across his throat and a withered hand.
"What's your name, lady?" as he offered up his claw.
"Where y'from, lady?" whispered to Christine.
She asked him the same as she took his yellow paw.

"Well, I been to the County Home," was his only reply.
The other man just stood back and stared at the sky.
"I got the breath o' life in me," and he pointed to his throat.
"Thank y,lady, thank y'for yer time..."
And my friends recrossed the bridge like they'd just seen a ghost.