Pierced by screams is my abode, perched high above the mountainside.
With decapitated skulls lining the gates, enough for sane men to think twice.
Insurance salesmen, aren’t they mad? Also, bill collectors go too far.
For other toilers have already learned, how unwise it is to tread my yard.
Utility meters checked from a distance, groceries at the gates left unsigned for,
After losing fellow members of their ilk, the postman doesn’t ring here anymore.
But a few dare venture past the skulls, dismissing them as harmless pranks.
It is these brave souls who are soon lost, including half the staff from the bank.
Knock on my front door, if you dare, for I’m inclined to leave it wide open.
But once it shuts, then be made aware, the knobs and latches are broken.
For a few may enter, but none may leave, this house at the top of the mountain,
And soon my chorus will include your screams, of that I will make certain.