The ghost of Bampfylde is who I am,
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By the clear, swift creeks I roam.
My loved ones lived south of the dam,
My story in the hearth of home.
The attics of boyhood hid secrets
Only the brave dared to know;
No thrills satiate the palates
Of hijacked pubescence for show!
Before boys grew up a crisis struck,
From which men were keenly made:
Damn rascals turned from shooting ducks
To chasing after girls with braids!
Without any training love debuted,
Hormones started a new trend;
But quickly came a news most skewed
Of heartbreak beyond any mend.
No-one ever told those teenaged boys
That with joy sorrow must come,
And sorrow marched without a noise
To the beats of a dead man's drum.
In their old age all these men wondered
About things they could have done.
In their rues they deeply suffered,
But none knew why, not even one.
If only they could see what we ghosts see
From beyond the graves that enslave man:
Death does not end a lifelong esprit,
Oh but a heart unbridled surely can!
So with regards to the matter of life
This is what a spirit has to say:
To end the wars of your inner strife,
Honour your love—and forgive now—today!