In the old bitter North of the french,
There used to be a gray wooden bench.
Its size, it almost didn't matter because
It was made by a man named Mr. Shatter.

He put the bench right outside his house,
He thought about the travel-worn people,
But first of all, he thought about his spouse,
She grew tired of living in that steeple...

He put the bench right between the trees,
So she could feel on her skin the gentley breeze.
He knew Autumn's yellow was coming
So, the bench, a great place it was becoming.

As Mr. Shatter was on his fields out to trench,
Mrs. Shatter was sitting on the gray wooden bench.
She was sitting there in the light, a bit numbing,
And anyone could hear her slightly humming.

As she lay down on the gray wooden bench,
Out of her memories came out her very own old friends.
In odd jelly forms, they came out in a clench
In their transcended minds, they were all twists and bends.

'Hahahahaha!' laughed the mysterious ghosts
'We are the phantoms of your youth!'
Cried the little one in a manner most morose,
Mrs. Shatter felt like she was in a booth.

'But who are you?' asked Mrs. Shatter,
'Why have you come here in such a beautiful place?'
'I am Blatter and they are Slatter and Tatter!'
Said the tallest one holding a  great devious mace.

'We want to ask you a question!' said Tatter,
'Indeed, a very humble question!' said Slatter,
'May we take your bench?' asked Blatter.
'My bench? But why?' cried Mrs. Shatter.

Mrs. Shatter, at the beginning, was wondering deep inside
And asked herself, 'What could they possibly do?'
'Take my bench then!' said Mrs. Shatter with her voice dried.
'It's all yours!' with a wobbling voice too.

Without a word, Blatter, Slatter and Tatter
Grabbed the bench by each matter
And with a gray sounding clatter
They flew away with Mrs. Shatter.

When Mr. Shatter came back from his fields
He rushed in a hurry in a great deal of yields
And in the Autumn's yellow light of dawn
He discovered that Mrs. Shatter was gone.

Mr. Shatter cried with a great desperate yawn
And thought that Mrs. Shatter couldn't be foregone
He sat down too, bedrenched in blench
And this was the story of the gray wooden bench
In the old bitter North of the french.