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Poem	by a dank and ancient coffin in the gaunt and gloomy hall alone and sighing deeply crouched the sorriest crone of all her worn hands clutched a feather her eyes were sore with tears her lips were mumbling slowly through the burdens of her fears her clothes were drab and tattered her body drooped and old she waited waited waited her blood let in the cold she waited waited waited a chill draught killed her sighs day slunk down from the windows night spied with its evil eyes the mildewed sagging curtains dragged on the harsh stone floor and the fitful crash re-echoed of the limping thickset door a distant churchbell gloated a groan grew in the trees a shudder of horror shook the coffin the crone sank to her knees the coffin lid was lifting slowly a weird light glowed within and a hand as thin as a chicken's claw seized the crone and pulled her in
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