There are sounds all around me!
Constantly coming from the ground.
My ears –
I tell you;
They are sore to the very core!
I curse this wretched compound.

Is it the creaking of the door,
Or a grizzly old man's deafening snore?
Does it remind you of aged wood,
Or perhaps some ancient lore?
Down here in the moor,
Where colorful weeds called flowers
Are the only things left to adore.

Or Is it perhaps
Something of swampy fright?
Growing louder with each second,
Resonating proudly under foggy...