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The Laskey brothers owned a farm, a lovely little spot.
A babbling brook made merry mist when summer nights were hot.
And that’s when Jacob filled his pipe and sat upon a boulder.
The smoke arose, a haloed ring around his tired shoulders.

He loved to end each day of toil in such a way as this,
He had no wife to chase about, no urge to get a kiss.
So, there he’d dream beside the stream as it would gurgle by,
His highland glen and tidy farm enough to satisfy.

His brother, Nat, would clean and cook. He’d rather be inside
With silent acrobatic cats that kept him occupied.
But came a night when Jake did not return from his soiree,
For he had puffed his final puff. The bloke had passed away.

But did he pass? The neighbors saw his ghostly white complexion,
Almost every moonlit night upon the rough projection.
Not only did they witness Jacob’s eerie prototype,
But they were sure that they could smell him puffing on his pipe.

The people of this cozy dell were now forever daunted
For rumors spread for miles around… their stomping ground was haunted!
Wildlife would not venture there… rabbits, deer and swallow
So afraid that they’d evade the vale known as Ghost Hollow. 

Now, some insist there was no ghost, no misty apparition,
And all the gossip that you’ve heard is simply superstition. 
Nathaniel took his brother’s place, straddling that rock,
Puffing on Jake’s corncob pipe, and you’re all laughingstock! 
                                              ***

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