A Letter to a Visitor

Dearest houseguest please refrain from pointing out the sitting room stain,

It wasn’t there when I moved in, but neither was that spare ear tin.

I do regret the corpse outline that’s sending shivers down your spine, like it’s memory it will fade, collision with a garden spade.

It’s been a while since someone came, the lack of dusting is my shame, some years ago I had a maid but she is gone I never paid.

Then there was the garden chap, whose neck was broke with quite a snap. He’s now in his eternal bed, in concrete underneath the shed.

One Christmas singers came with cheer, they never rang in that new year. I warmed them with some poisoned fare and tucked them in between each stair.

Collection tins are lying round, their shakers hidden in the ground. The postman’s bag was nice and soft, he’s filled it and he’s in the loft.

The water is a nasty hue and bones are found in every loo. The neighbour’s son, his name was Frank is drowned in the cold water tank.

I moved in here in 89 and have lived here for quite some time. In 48 the Sunday School all drowned inside my swimming pool.

In 62 I had a break and sat reclining by the lake. But a man came round to clean the bin, it shocked him when I shoved him in.

The rooms have all had people stay but very few have gone away. They linger on here just like me, I’m buried under yonder tree.

So if you care where you reside, you might not want to stay inside. But please do stay and try your luck.

Yours with love, Archibald T Gluck