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Get it for free in the app store. Oh, Oh, Hello and welcome to blurry photos. I'm your host David Flora. Welcome to the last episode of the slightly extended

blurry photoburn.

This one's gonna be a little palette cleanser after a photoburn of murmur and debauchery. It's the ninth edition of the annual

ghost stories and I've got a little something different for you this time around.

For fun and shiggles this edition is going to be all poetry.

It's like Captain Crunch oops all poems.

Thought it might be fun to try something a little different, and I hope you enjoy.

Here is Ghost Stories Nine. A haunted wood by Isaac McClellan.

I oft times come to this lonely place and forget the stir of my restless race.

Forget the woes of human life, the bitter pang and the constant strife, the angry word and the cruel taunt, the sight and the

sound of guilt and want, and the frequent tear by the widow's shed, when her infants ask in vain for bread.

All these I put from my mind aside, and forget the offense of worldly pride.

It is said that the spirits of buried men oft come to this wicked world again.

That the churchyard turf is often trod by the unlaid tenants of tomb and sod.

At the midnight sea itself is swept by those who have long beneath it slept and they say of this old

mossy wood whose hoary trunks have for ages stood at every knoll and dim-lit glade is haunted at night by its restless shape.

It is told that an Indian king whose name hath perished long from the scroll of fame and whose

thousand warriors slumber low in equal rest with spear and bow was want to pursue the fallow deer and hold his feasts and make

Mary here, and seek his repose in the noontide heat by this noisy brook at my very feet and here at the close

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