While Jimmy tried his tale to tell,

something made its way from Hell.

A ghastly, ghostly chill swept town

and all the folk were battened down.


Yet followed they the force of air

that seemed to bring a presence there.

And led it them to the edge of town,

where a spectral man was hanging ‘round.


From the gallows hung a misery, a memory of despair.

An empty shell of human form containing not a care.

The folk they gathered all around and wondered of his name,

but The Swingin’ Man avoided them as he hung around in shame.


They could not get to spy his face, no matter whence they spied.

All around the board they walked as each amongst them tried.

The Swingin’ Man was always hung with back towards the crowd,

and knowing of his face this time was clearly not allowed.


The ghostly thing was baffling, for split they into pairs,

alighting ‘pon The Swingin’ Man with distance in their stares.

On left and right stood they, they did, and to the front and back,

but no matter all perspective known the features stayed in black.


‘Who is it?’ shouted many, and some others from the Square.

‘Who would put a man tonight a-swingin’ way up there?’

But none could answer, baffled they by mystery of it all.

The identity of The Swingin’ Man was anybody’s call.

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