For some it may seem rather brash,
To weave the tale of Edmond Thrashe,
Sans his whippings from the lash,
Or lacking proper pomp and dash

But knowing this,
It seems amiss,
To punish crimes,
With stale remiss,
Of facts all gleaned,
From prior bliss,
For timely fates,
Or demon's kiss

Whispering, they calmly nod,
But digits on the hand of God,
Clutching firmly,
Wield the ****,
Of bodies stacked,
And heaped with laud

Weave the strings,
From gilded threats,
Of unpaid dues,
Or ancient debts,
"Steal the night and place your bets,
On Thrashe's bloodied pirouettes,
Of shame!"

Stepping firmly from the plains,
He waltzes stiff as Old Lorraine,
In blackened boots with clamps which strain,
His sickly, dirt-encrusted frame

Bouts of anger curse his throat,
While he staggers towards the boat,
With withered boards, and broken oars,
"****** by visions",
They all wrote

Unfurl the sails,
And set for Wales,
'Tis there he'll "thrash" among the gales!
Of tacit seas,
And growing dread,
While wishing bullets,
To his head,
Which never'll rear,
Their crooked lead,
'Round here...