It was a lovely summers day
When he took his stick and walked
To the sleepy little hamlet
Of which the locals talked
He strolled and took the sights
No signage could he see
It should only be mile
How much longer could it be?
And then the sign appeared
Weather worn, an ancient thing
The legend borne upon it
Welcome to Ravenswing
It seemed to be deserted
No villagers to be found
His gnarly walking stick
Made an empty lonely sound
But he couldn't help to feeling
Many eyes upon his track
But curiosity had held him
And as he walked, the sky turned black
The greatest storm then grew
And a wailing filled the air
The souls of long dead villagers
They took him, then and there
As the storm subsided
And the sun retook its place
A weathered walking stick
Of a curse, the only trace
On a lovely summers day
When black birds take flight to sing
Be mindful on your travels
Of the ghosts of Ravenswing...
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