The Carver

What lies beneath the crooked bridge,
Some say it is nothing but the wind,
Others know it is not,
They are the ones that have been skinned.
Yes the wind does howl,
With a noise so intense,
Like a freight trains whistle,
So very immense.
They say don't venture,
Around the bridge at night,
Or you might meet the carver,
When the moon so bright.
No one living has seen him,
No one living knows what he does,
As only bones are left so grim,
To tell the story of what once was.
You have heard of the headless horseman,
Such a pussy cat that he was,
For the carver, a crafty swordsman,
Carves ever so slowly, never any flaws.
Many traps have been set,
Many sleepless nights waiting,
Many wives do fret,
No use debating.
For he must be caught,
Too many missing,
Everyone distraught
No dogs barking.
So when you visit,
Our crooked bridge,
You cannot miss it,
Down in the village.
Don't hesitate at night,
Listen to the wind,
If something not right,
A pleasure it has been.