Testo The Puddle

Now, since the well's not the only place to draw water, it's overflowing down the stairs and running across the street.
Should I be surprised and it's puddling outside the iron graveyard gate?
Is this all a mystery make for me, enough to keep me going and happy?
Past cemetary after cemetary.
With my pockets full of saltwater taffy, a small gust billows the willows, the gate swings and I can't dance nor sing no more, a walk at twilight aside hedges and corridors, what's all this for? I need a plaything, a season of wild adventuring.
At Cape Cod wondering, just where you go to?
You're missing screend porches and cricket chirps, a violent crime at the house down the lane.
I may dress like one of the Hardys but trust I am good for nothing, except maybe a partner on a porch swing.