The Ghostly Quartet Poem by Max Gatrell

Within the Hotel, all were at rest,
All except one, one lady guest.
This lady asleep, swiftly awoken,
By something unique, her slumber was broken.
The lady sat up and guess what she saw?
'twas a band set of ghosts, fiddlers four!
Yet as they played on, no tune was endured,
No glide of the bow or pluck of a chord.

What was this terror, deep in her room?
Was it a sign or some omen of doom?
In fact it was neither malice nor gloom,
Just four that were free, free from their tomb.
This was too much, she started to shake,
At figures transparent, but darkly opaque.
Unfazed by her freaking, this devilish throng,
Proceeded to play, enslaved by their song.

To those in their grave, the sombre is merry,
The requiem is gay, the dirge is contrary.
Just plucking away with a smile on their face,
Oblivious to time, done with that chase.
Finales performed, they hence disappear,
Finished they are until the next year.
But soon they'll be back, same as before,
To play once again, those fiddlers four.