House on a hill, dark and mysterious,
The man who lives there, old and serious.
I say serious because he's a scholar,
A Harvard graduate who saves every dollar.
He's a writer, a gem collector, a stargazer,
His mind is quick, as sharp as a razor.
He also collects rare books and ancient maps.
Some say he protects his place with booby traps.
A silhouette of mystery and intrigue,
House better viewed from the shores of Fort Migg,
Situated on the ocean, it's anchored to the rocks,
Lest crashing waves destroy it and the docks.
Mysterious weekend gatherings take place every fall,
When chartered boats, and sail boats arrive at the wall.
Of rumors there are many, but no one knows,
Maybe they study the written word, like poetry and prose.
The written word? No, they buy and sell gemstones.
Gemstones, like tourmaline and moonstones?
"Let's investigate," someone bravely said.
"Count me out...I'd rather be alive than dead."
Dark bushes, dark windows, even darker inside,
Funeral music, like someone has died.
A room full of people, man speaking in a drone,
About an object on the table, a glowing red stone.
The following day, this in the New York Times,
'Largest of its kind', in bold, black headlines.
'Gemstone of the rainbow', a collector's delight,
A red tourmaline stone sold for 1.5 million last night