they call it the chamber
cold..gray..made of steel
a thick heavy door..with a submarine latch
it has two seats
i can never figure why
they put people in
just one at a time

the vat underneath the seat holds acid
the cyanide pellets in burlap bags
on fishing line
rolled on a real

the seat has hole's
for a more sickening feel

at the strike of twelve the switch is pulled
the real unwinds
to meet it's destination
in an acid bath
there is no escape
you made your bed
but instead of laying
your sitting


the only sound heard
is throbbing...your heart pushing blood..a mile a minute
not the last thing you ever wanna hear

hold your breath
as long as you  can
its your last chance
to make your stand
the gas rises up from under the chair
your veins protrude from your head
in thirty more seconds your surly dead

you wish you could take back
the wrong you did
as the air rushes out
you cry one last shout

you are now oblivious
your no longer with us
as the phone rings
its the red  phone
the voice on the other end of the line
says take him back
theres been a stay
its to late....the man's last  breath
is now venting through the roof
mixed with gas
and the real truth

no help is on the way


close the chamber
seal it up
it's done it's job
one i would never like to have