The House on 42nd Avenue 

         There was once                a man who did     live on 42nd             

   avenue ...               he was all alone     in his house, for no other lived           

with him.                   The flowers                            were not happy 

 to bloom             around his                            house, for       some odd         

 reason, they        saw a strange                        thing they               

  would not          accept among their                soft, pale        petals ......            

  what this          thing they                          knew that          we did not,             

  I will              never know.                       For one day       I went to the            

  house where         the plants do                 not seem to            ever grow.               

    There was          a silence in          that house ... that         house on                

    42nd avenue ...         I knocked on that man's door, no worry        there to             

    warn me......         yet here was but a simple man, of          simple means               

      and a sweet         if puzzling heart.  I went back           every day,                   

      you see . . .           I took care of the man            who did not have                 

        any flowers.                I stayed on                for many a deep                    

          and lonesome                                        evening . . .                      

            Never would                                     come the day                          

              that I'd regret                         my stay with him.                          

                For still do I reside in his lonely little basement,                             

                  where the flowers do grow, with roots of green                                 

                      affixed within my hair and soft, pale petals