Death at the Inn

The moon was a ghostly galleon,
at least that's what he said.
When he told his phantom story,
of the tragic, legendary dead.

And as I stared out from my window,
of the room in the old inn,
and I saw that very haunting moon,
that's when my story begins.

The strangest clattering sound
rose driftingly to my ears.
It was almost like hooves on cobbles,
though I'd never heard the sound in all my years.

I feared I was merely dreaming,
as a result of my romantic setting,
and yet the sound got louder,
as though with the closer it was getting.

So just to see what happened,
I turned my eyes straight towards,
the road that was a ribbon of moonlight
over the purple moor.

He must have been much grander,
when he was still alive,
but I could still see the faintest twinkle,
of his rapier hilt under the sky.

His long dead horse was magnificent
as it pranced over the yard,
and his black whip really curled lazily,
as it tapped windows barred.

And when he whistled his tune to the window,
there were shivers down my spine,
his voice was very low and deep,
as he gave his love the sign.

Bess was certainly beautiful,
her eyes were wide and black.
And her hair was the color of the night,
and hung down past her back.

And I swear I heard the stable door creak,
and I could almost see molded hay,
and Tim the crazy ostler listened
to what they had to say.

He called her his bonny sweetheart,
and promised to come again.
And I could smell the perfume in the darkness,
and she let her hair down to him.

Time seemed to skip and leap,
as morning and afternoon sped by,
and came to the fateful dusk,
when the sun was falling from the sky.

The redcoats marched in careful rows,
and they were bloody in the dying light.
It was like a warning of the blood and death,
that would come by the end of the night.

And I heard their cruel and rude insults,
as they chafed poor Bess's skin,
from ropes that were tied far too tight,
ropes tied by ruthless men.

The rustling of her hands,
as she fought so hard to get free
was the most desolate thing I've ever heard
yet she could have no help from me.

And then the icy stillness
told me she had finally found,
with the tip of one of her fingers,
the cold trigger that would give her love the sound.

I heard it as she'd heard it,
so many years ago,
the tlots of the horse's hooves,
and how loudly it seemed they echoed.

I was drenched in the coldest sweat,
as my ears strained hard to hear,
and when I heard her last deep breath,
my eyes filled with tears.

The shot rang out so horribly,
and I hugged myself so tight,
as I listened to the tlots fade,
as the highwayman took flight.

And time did that peculiar jump,
and then suddenly I could catch,
the glint of scarlet on his spurs,
as he came riding back from the west.

His madman's curse seemed to rebound,
in the golden, deadly noon,
and his coat was red as the blood,
that was going to be spilled so soon.

And this shot was just as loud,
as the one that brought Bess down,
when they shot him down on the highway,
as though he was merely a hound.

The wine red blood soaked around him,
as his life came quick to the end,
and he lay there in his own red blood,
with a bunch of lace at his chin.

And on a winter's night they say,
and I know now they are right,
when the wind goes whistling through the trees,
and sets the leaves in flight,

when the clouds in the sky,
cup the moon in the sea of the night,
and over the purple moor,
the road is a ribbon of moonlight,

a highwayman comes riding, riding, riding,
a phantom in your sight,
a highway man comes riding,
forever playing out that long gone night.