| The edison museum, not open to the public
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| Its haunted towers rise into the clouds above
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| Folks drive in from out of town
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| To gaze in amazement when they see it Just outside the gate I look into the courtyard
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| Underneath the gathering thunderstorm
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| Through the iron bars, I see the black maria
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| Revolving slowly in its platform
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| In the topmost tower, the lights burn dim
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| A coiling filament glowing within
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| The edison museum, once a bustling factory
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| Today is but a darkened cobweb covered hive of industry
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| The tallest, widest and most famous haunted mansion in new jersey
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| Behind a wooden door, the voice of thomas alva
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| Recites a poem on a phonograph
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| Ghosts float up the stairs, like silent moving pictures
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| The loyal phantoms of his in house staff
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| A wondrous place it is, there can be no doubt
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| But no one ever goes in, and no one ever goes out
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| The edison museum, not open to the public
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| Its haunted towers rise into the clouds above it The oldest, greatest and most famous haunted mansion in new jersey |