The House on Cricklewood Avenue

The house on Cricklewood Avenue looked menacing in the dark, A silhouette against the evening sky; And children playing in the park, who'd soon be homeward bound, Said "Don't go near that house or you could die." The place looked so deserted, there was not a sign of life, Yet tales were told of what went on inside; The house on Cricklewood Avenue, that made the blood run cold, Was that the place where little children died? Some said the house was haunted, and reports of evil deeds, Would keep away so many girls and boys; But I was left undaunted by the thorns and tangled weeds, To reach the house, despite a warning voice. The dark and dusty windows made it difficult to see, If anyone was hiding there inside; But the house on Cricklewood Avenue, was waiting there for me, For suddenly a door was open wide. I stepped into the hallway, I was shaking all the time, But there was no one answering my call; "I'm just a little boy I cried, are you a friend of mine?" But the house it seemed was empty after all. And just a few days later, that old house was up for sale, I saw the sign they'd fixed upon the wall; Replacing the original that fell down in the gale, But that was long ago when I was small. Now the house on Cricklewood Avenue is full of life and joy, Illuminated by a golden sun; And from inside the laughter of a happy girl and boy, Reminds me how it should be when you're young.