A be”witch”ing poem for the sake of the Halloween spirit. In a city, on the border Of Greenwich Harbor and Bly, Maine Lies a scene, dubbed out of order The people don’t like to explain For when nightfall finds its calling And the ground is damp with dew A strange, mist-like fog starts falling Believed from the witches brew. When the haze drifts on the hillside The scent of sulfur fills the air Streaking ‘cross the ebbing high tide Till the fog is everywhere Then the night becomes quite stoic ‘Neath the bright yellow facade […]