The Man Outside


There’s a man, dressed head-to-toe in black, standing outside of my kitchen window.
He’s probably a kind young soul, going on an evening stroll,
But I hear a scratch, scratch, scratching at my window,
And don’t see him anymore; he’s hidden by the black cloak of night.

He’s probably a kind young soul, going on an evening stroll,
But I hear a tap, tap, tapping at my back door; I check it once, then twice,
And I don’t see him anymore; he’s hidden by the black cloak of night.
Fueled by the burning flame of fear, I lock every door in sight,

But I hear a tap, tap, tapping at my back door; I check it once, then twice;
Then my feet carry me one room over, moving of their own accord.
Fueled by the burning flame of fear, I lock every door in sight,
But then I hear a crash, crash, crashing through my wall.

Then my feet carry me one room over, moving of their own accord.
As I dart into my closet, I can’t help but wonder if it’s all in my head,
But then I hear a crash, crash, crashing through my wall.
And I hear the squeak, squeak, squeaking of my bedroom door.

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