Wednesday 26 August 2015

The Lynching Pack


That macabre sirened shrill
An eruption from the cradle of pain
Its forbidden resonance a corpse to jerk
This shouldn’t at all thrill the heart
But to the living dead a tune
As the dance of horror these ruthless specie performed
In the stony grave of their cold hearts

Theirs is that judgement seat
Where there are only slaying prosecutors
And only a few tearful yet silent defence counsels
Where judgements are passed at a lethal beckon
No ears for fair hearing
Where he with all the sins
Shall cast the first and last stones

The firing squad a haven
Than to fall into the blood drooling hands
Of these haunted jurors
Whose hands armed with hateful devices
For displays the devil cannot invent
A courtroom where pleas for mercy
Fuels depraved rage

Now man seek to outdo man in horror
A showmanship of medieval reawakening
Skull shattering presentations
Tarsalled and metatasarlled vicious dissections
Peltings of death
Where the stone kills
And the fire brings back to life

The court bursts into heartless guffaws
At the sight of this blazing dance
The tunes played by demons
No exorcist can save now
The rest a statue erected for nauseous tourist attraction
All for a morsel of porridge without request
Neither for exchange













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