The Curse of Glenda Grooms

 
Now here’s the rub, there is a pub near Baileyshore and Kern,
where brawny lads, both sons and dads, in whom adventures burn.
Old legends said the vengeful dead lay close across that bridge,
beyond the copse of trees and crops there planted on the ridge.

 
They place their bets, the short straw gets the trip out to the moors,
to show their girth—their manly worth—to tread on terror’s shores.
Tho’ some come back, their minds have cracked, they never are the same.
There's some who say, even today, that Glenda is to blame.
 

The cemetery’s dank and damp where ghastly Glenda lurks.
Men’s minds–they rage, their stomachs cramp–they find their legs won’t work.
It’s there that Glenda met her fate, beneath yon willow tree.
Her lover’s lust, she wouldn’t sate—he strangled her; you see.

 
Some venture out, resolve so stout, to find poor Glenda there.
She rises from her musty grave—they freeze beneath her stare.
Deep in the Moors of Breckinridge, the ground is truly foul.
She draws them in, they turn to run—but that, she won't allow.

For Glenda’s seeking company—it’s lonely in the earth.
It’s men she seeks, her ire piques, when’ere they're near her berth
within that cold, damp wat'ry ground, where she was laid to rest.
Steer clear, don’t near that cursed place—forget your foolish quest.