Out on Main Street stands a shack, two stories tall and lean, A wooden heap so creaky it could star in its own scene. The doors swing wide for tumbleweeds, the windows sigh in pain, It’s the only place in town where even ghosts complain. Two stories tall and sun‑bleached bare, it leans like it’s had one too many, A western wooden relic where the ghosts outnumber twenty. The porch boards groan, the shutters wheeze, the whole place creaks and squeaks, And up front, bold as brass, a sign declares in giant letters: ANTIQUES. As if the building itself doesn’t already scream, “Buddy… I am the merchandise.”
