The mansard-roofed manse high on Hobbs Hill
Overlooks the ocean far below.
Strange stories are told about it still,
Since being abandoned long ago.
Yet, even now, there are those who say
They’ve seen candlelight on the third floor.
It’s this type of tale keeps folks away -
No one dares open that sealed front door.
Clapboard siding is rotted and gray,
With moss growing in many wide cracks.
It’s been years since white paint peeled away,
Years, too, since anyone paid the tax.
The property tax is on the books,
But ownership is hard to assign.
Yearly, an appraiser comes and looks,
Pacing off the plat's property line.
Again assured nobody lives there,
“Abandoned”, he writes on the tax sheet.
He'd approached a window with fear,
Took a quick glance, and made his retreat.
If one delves into the history,
Of this house overlooking the sea,
They might solve an ancient mystery,
Dating back to seventeen-ought-three.
At that time, the house was owned by Hobbs,
Who lived alone, miserly, in fact.
Although, when grown old, he’d take odd jobs,
If essential provisions he lacked.
He was found hung, one raw winter day,
Strung up out back from an old oak tree,
How long he’d hung there, no one could say -
It wasn’t a pretty sight to see.
Old Hobbs had been tortured, that was clear,
What was it that they wanted to know?
Missing three fingers and his left ear,
His killers must have hated him so.
Inside, the mansion had been ransacked,
Even plaster was scraped from the walls.
Vases, lamp bases, all had been cracked,
Hollow heads were yanked from two clay dolls.
Did the killers get what they wanted?
The investigators didn’t know.
Since that day the place has been haunted,
And through that door, nobody will go.
Yet, if one were to enter the manse,
And dig deep beneath the cellar floor,
In a certain spot, there’s a good chance
That they’d never need work anymore.
Pirate’s treasure has been buried there,
For Hobbs was one of Captain Kid’s crew.
And along with his own hefty share,
He stole some of his shipmates’ loot, too.
Hobbs dug the hole, and filled it again,
Six feet of dirt over his treasure.
He would dream about it now and then -
Counting gold doubloons gave him pleasure.
But, as years passed by, and Hobbs grew old,
He became feeble, with painful joints,
Unable to excavate that gold.
It’s still there, where the rusted spade points.
© By RickMack (Rmrickmack@aol.com)
Watch these pages for more poems by RickMack.
In the meantime, click the links below for
poems and stories by our other authors.
If I Were A Queen
Big Shiny Balls
The Twelve Days of Christmas, Updated
Captain Of My Ship
Not Just Any Gift
Ode To 2004
White Winter Scenes
And.......for many others, click the index image.
Graphics by Marilyn