Under The Boards

There is a house in London

Where even in winter time

The windows are always open wide

There is a house in London

Where incense burns at all hours

Concealing a much less pleasant smell

A sour stench that mingles with

The scent of burning oil

There in Melrose Avenue

So many guests come and go

Some come to stay

Some of the guests come to stay

At one hundred ninety five

So many people come and go

But too many guests come to stay

Neatly lined under the boards of the floor

Summertime

The maggots are crawling everywhere

Smoke can't keep the flies away

Dennis finds harder to tidy up the house

Tossing salt upon the rotten flesh

Wiping it away to rid the bodies of worms

Extracting bowels, liver, heart, and lungs

Dissecting corpses, packing limbs and head

To carry them easily to their funeral pyre