The storied house of Horror

There once lived a story
In a two storey house.
It was slightly gory
To use or arouse.
And one day he wanted
To add a new floor
For that he consulted,
A writer of yore!
The writer was cranky,
And blind as a bat,
He sneezed in a hanky,
And spoke like a cat.
He looked at the story,
And wondered aloud:
‘As serves my memory,
You once were thrown out.
The macabre and horror,
Did not serve them well.
One day you discover
“Evicted” in mail.’
The story was sorry
And sorrowful sobbed,
‘It was a new worry
My home had been robbed.
But then they all saw me,
And saw me they well.
They read me and bade me
And saw how I sell.
Now rich and happy,
I want a new floor.
Please do make it snappy,
Can’t wait anymore.’
The writer, a fighter
Looked at him perhaps,
His eyes, each and neither,
Were too good with chaps.
And wrote him a new one,
He wrote him a floor,
A floor of post modern
Takes on old folklores.
The story was happy
With one complete house.
A few rooms were crappy,
But some rooms aroused.
Thus endeth this story,
In one, two, three act.
A gory old story,
Told complete, intact.
-Shakya Bose
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