When I biked with autumn frequency
I’d end up in the cemetery
where the ghost pipes would oft sing to me.
I could hear of legends wordlessly.

It is not as if they all made sense,
all these histories from the well-past tense.
Still, I listened hard, as I lay on fence,
while the pipes would information dispense.

And I learned of life from the ghostly dead,
such as Eerie Anne, and Olde Headless Jed
who had been short-lived, but their lives, long shed
and who knew their graves like the back of their… heads.

Lots of data came from the stones out there.
Much of it good; none I shall share.
If you want to know about about the dead, go where
I had been by bike, if you’re not too scared…