I walk down to the store,

Though some days I walk a million miles more.

The sky is gray and daunting,

As I walk through the creeper door.

My shop is quiet and haunting,

But this is quite the norm.

I flip through my throbbing tome,

In sullen search for my next chore.

Ah, here it is, the old man on 18 and Gnome.

As I prepare my tools,

I am carried over the moor,

To my automated ornithopter, I am secured.

I find the man in a puddle of filth,

Lying on his chamber floor.

Being sure to avoid his spilth,

I take the man’s measurements, one hundred and forty-four.

I sterilize my instruments,

The task is quite mundane, hereinbefore.

As proclaimed in his testament, 

I cut out his metal core,

One small adjustment,

I replace the old with a new of much more vigor.

A simple whir and a click of a cog,

The man is back up, for at least a few years more.

This is the Odd Job,

I work the Odd hours.

Alone in a brave new world,

But from a simple task to a horrendous charge;

Through hauntings, horrors, and the macabre,

I shall never withdraw.

I work silently, expectantly at my store,

Awaiting my next Odd chore.