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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Horror/Scary · #2100236
A delightful poem of horror, gore and banjos set in the hills of South Carolina.
There's a cabin in the pines, in the hills of Caroline,
Where I was born and I am living still:
There's no neighbors all around, who might hear suspicious sounds
From my stinkin' little cabin on the hill.

There's a story I must tell, how the cabin got its smell,
It started way back when with Cindy Lou;
She was an angel from above, the mountain girl I loved,
She was my wife and my step sister too.

One night when all alone cooking moonshine in our home,
My banjo loudly rang from our front room;
There I found her on the floor, midst the brains and blood and gore,
And it never knocked my banjo out of tune.

So I put her 'neath the planks where she soon began to stank,
And her essence every day, it lingers still;
And the buzzards come at night, in the pines they softly light
Above my stinkin' cabin on the hill.

Then the word got all around, she was no where to be found,
So they sent the parish preacher brother Bill,
Now Bill and Deacon Moore lie at rest beneath the floor
Of my stinkin' little cabin on the hill.

Life is good and life is merry at my cabin cemetery,
I love my place, I guess I always will;
Sometimes neighbors will drop in, but they never leave again,
From my stinkin' little cabin on the hill.

Oh, ring ring da banjo, I love dat good ole song,
When I play my banjo its a thrill,
My name is Buford Diller, hillbilly serial killer
At my stinkin' little cabin on the hill.

If you're ever out my way, come by and spend the day,
And bring along your guitar if you will;
I'll introduce you to my friends for a jam that never ends,
At my stinkin' little cabin on the hill.
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