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Plaster Saints

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A spectral wail, a cold and hollow sound
The tea kettle hissed a tune of pure despair
And plates and glasses slid across the ground
A phantom draft did stir a maiden’s hair
Of plaster saints, now chipped and hollow-eyed

While in the corner, terror’s chill did hide
From every wall, a new and horrid creak
The shadows danced, not with a playful grace
Of some infernal purpose, no one dared speak
But with a manic twitch across the face

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