The man at the tower of Bastille

Every day, on the way to school,

I passed a man as strange as a ghoul.

He stood by the tower that’s said to be haunted,

And didn’t appear to be the slightest bit daunted.

It seemed that he was in his own little world,

As around him crowds of people swirled.

Children would shout and call out at him,

But I never saw him move a limb.

His only friends were the solitary birds,

Who seemed to be drawn by silent words.

They would fly to him from far away,

And upon his black silk hat would lay.

He never noticed but stayed ever still,

The man at the doomed tower of Bastille.