The Folks of Innsmouth

by Franklyn Searight

Innsmouth, that strange, mysterious seaport no one really wants to visit, but still...A poetic study into the lives of the less fortunate folk of the town by Franklyn Searight. These pages will hopefully be an ongoing feature. As more poetry by Frank becomes available, it will be posted here.

Characters

Bootleg Dealer

The dingy gen'ral store you'll surely find
Right off the littered Square on old Bates Street.
There in the back the bootleg dealer waits
Where even more distasteful people meet.
He's civil if you have the hefty price
To buy a flagon of his bottled goods.
He'll take your money but refuse to tell
You where he makes his whiskey in the woods.
He sneers at all the Prohibition laws
He daily violates with stubborn will.
The Rev'nue agents let him have his way;
Where liquor's made is his own secret still.

Federal Officer

Now then, climb upon my knee, Sonny Boy.
I'll tell you of the time so long ago
When other Federal officers and I
Torpedoed Devil Reef and all below.
We blasted those marine abysses good,
And then within the town we searched about.
With mercy shown to none who had the "look",
We went around and cleaned the vermin out.
We flushed out darkened cellars, attics, too,
Examined secret places large and small;
We probed in every place where they might hide;
And yet I'm sure we didn't get them all!

Mortician

I never quite precisely understood
Just why my business here is so danged slow.
I own the only mortuary that's
In Innsmouth—so where else could dead folks go?
A native told me that when death occurs
By mishap, violence, or suicide,
The body's seldom ever seen again,
And lacks interment such as I provide.
He said old folks were hardly ever seen;
They changed, became immortal, swam from shore;
And now they live forever 'neath the sea.
No wonder that my business is so poor!

Bobby’s Cousin Lawrence

You think I’m crazy, but I’m really not.
My cousin, Robert Olmstead, he should know.
He rescued me from Canton’s madhouse where
They held me and refused to let me go.
It’s true I’ve changed a lot and now my looks
Are more repellant, lacking human frills.
The webbing ‘tween my fingers is complete,
And on my neck are palpitating gills.
The froggy aspect of my face is worse;
The scales I have you’d probably think obscene.
My bulging eyes, now fit for water life,
Peer over wrinkled skin a slimy green.

Casey

Inspecting factories is what I do.
I'm good at it, most people would agree.
One day I went to Innsmouth for the job
Of checking on their old refinery.
Perhaps you'd like to know about that time
Although it happened several years ago.
'Twas then I spent the night at Gilman House,
And met the weirdest crowd you'll ever know.
Their foreign talk and strange unnatural ways
Convinced me I should not remove my clothes;
I stayed awake all night, too scared to sleep,
And fled that town the moment I arose!

Children of Old Man Marsh

The sons of Old Man Marsh no longer work
Their daily shift refining “pirate” gold,
Although from time to time they still stop in
To see how many ingots have been sold.
The daughters are no better than the sons,
Repellant and reptil’yan they appear.
They wear exotic jewelry ‘round their necks,
And on their arms and fingers, too, I hear.
These grown up children shun the seaport streets;
They’re seldom seen in public building lobbies.
The older that they get the worse they look,
As certain “changes” reconstruct their bodies.

Real Estate Agent

You say you want to buy a summer home?
In Innsmouth? I’m surprised that you’d inquire.
Of course, I have a multi-listing here
That you can look through ‘long as you desire.
Not very many people live here now;
They’re dying off or moving, more’en more.
You might like this one here with gambrel roof;
Or this crude hovel near the scummy shore.
Perhaps this mansion here on Fed’ral Street?
It leans a bit and that’s why it won’t sell.
Plus something’s in the attic that won’t leave;
Except for that, I think the house is swell.