Haunted Woods

This is the tale of young Polkahontus. She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us. The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red; she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead. She gives the accordion a little squeeze; the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze. She dances and prances and plays in the wood; I’d drop a tree on her if I only could. At dusk she gets started down there in the vale; I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale. In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold, she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old. I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle. I aim through my scope with the polka red dot, but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!