Gone are the merciful gallows, and gone
Are the deep cuts of wayward shadows
That accompanied the aftermath
Of a day’s work,
Now all the crass fellows
Are in the dirt, perhaps hollow
And departed from their history, but before
There were those who waited, mourning
Their blind innocence in the stalls
Where men of misery would whisper
Through the scabs on their lips
Calling out to one another, “you ****** fools!”.

Here, they spoke of the ‘thirteen steps’
And the ‘one life’ that regressed, told so
To humble each and everyone
Of their grossly enamoured necks,

Such precision could never be ******.
No, “it is justice” says the man
Who smugly wields the golden hammer
And those rodents
Who demonstrate the title; ‘lucky-lurker’,

And when the rope is snipped
The mortality of men shall drip, like
An untethered shower head
Perpetually tugging with the clean hand
And the only farewells that shall be said;
“Mother Justice, he is dead”.