Stories from flippant mouths did tell
of a hidden house in the northern foothills
where one could spot, hid hind the gate
the ghost of our dear old President Abe.
Matthew and I, we’d always protest
so we set out to put these rumors to rest.
Packing a lunch and a camera eye,
we trekked to the plain where they say Lincoln did lie.
And we roamed thru the reed and stone.
Till we saw it there below an apple tree --
a quaint red shack that whispered to me.
A ripple of trouble, a sliver of fright
scampered down my back in the noon daylight.
We enter the house but no soul to be found --
only Lincoln’s hat on a desk upside down.
Inside an eagle feather and a cedar pipe.
I wanted to scream, to run for my life.
But he appears in our path.
He started to speak but we turned and ran
and we never told a soul about Abraham.
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