There sits upon my lawn each fall
a hearse of dreadful size.
Fourteen feet of air and cloth,
with death behind its eyes.
Two skeletons sit at the wheel,
their hollow faces grinning.
They’ve nowhere in particular to go,
but always look quite willing.
I’ve fought this thing for many years,
through rain and frost and gale.
I’ve tied it down and patched its wounds,
yet something always seems to fail.
Its ropes have snapped. Its stakes have bent.
Its fan has made strange sounds.
I’ve spent more time attending it
than anything else upon my grounds.
And still, each fall, I drag it out,
and give the thing its place.
I hammer stakes into the ground
and curse its grinning face.
Until one autumn, something changed.
The wind came hard one night.
The ropes pulled tight, the stakes gave way,
and the dead prepared for flight.
It cleared the lawn, it passed the fence,
and rose above the street.
Two skeletons rode proudly on,
with nothing beneath their feet.
No horses pulled this dreadful coach.
No engine gave it power.
It sailed along the sleeping street
at a most ungodly hour.
At Johnson’s house, the curtains moved.
A teacup met the floor.
Poor Mrs. Johnson watched the dead
go floating past her door.
Across the road, old Mr. Clark
stood drinking on his stair.
He saw the dead go sailing past
and dropped his glass right there.
He stumbled backward through his door,
his face a dreadful white,
and swore he’d never drink again
for the remainder of his life.
A dog went scrambling down the street,
then hid beneath a car.
Its owner dropped his evening smoke,
and watched it from afar.
The driver gripped his phantom wheel,
his grin both wide and bare.
His passenger sat proudly,
like a king upon his chair.
They drifted past the garden lights,
the pumpkins and the graves,
past plastic ghosts and witches
that had never been so brave.
The dead had claimed the neighbourhood,
their dreadful coach set free.
And not a soul upon that street
believed what they had seen.
But down the road there stood a tree,
quite sturdy, tall, and old.
It cared not for the living,
nor the dead, however bold.
The hearse came sailing through the night,
its passengers full of cheer.
Until they met that stubborn tree,
and their journey ended there.
And so the mighty chariot hung,
its glory torn and spent,
its ropes entwined among the branches,
its skeletons quite bent.
And when I found the blasted thing,
all tangled in that tree,
I stood beneath its dangling wheels
and sighed aloud, “Why me?”
I pulled it down and cursed the wind,
and those fools who chose to roam.
Then gathered up their battered bones,
and dragged the bastards home.
Again it sits upon my lawn,
held firmly to the ground.
I’ve doubled up the ropes and stakes,
lest it go another round.
Its drivers grin as though they know
the wind will rise again.
And I suspect they’re making plans
to torment me till then.
So should you hear a dreadful sound
upon an October night,
and see a hearse above your house
in wild and wicked flight,
don’t pray for your salvation.
Don’t tremble in your bed.
Just point the damned thing toward my house.
I’m getting tired of chasing the dead.
