for the sake of following the herd, I made poetry

Life's banal pleasures
Leak creaky ghosts
The boatman comes calling
And the twelve holy hosts

In the day we lay sleeping
Soft as a babe
Twice we were thinking
And morals were saved

Don't come in the house
Don't come in the door
The boatman on Styx don't live here no more

With men in white castles
The beaches white sand
A house or a mansion
In the Baptists hard land

The house of white linen
The house of the dead
Spirits they beckon
and hold out their hands

A house made of pavement
A house in this land
The hard headed butcher
The delicate strand

We've seen the urchins
The lepers
The Dead and the cooked
In movements they quiken
The paralyzed hook

Come to the side door
Lean out the crack

Her bitch hands are empty
The wind whistles back