"A short drop
To a sudden stop"
So the saying goes.
A twisted rope
And no more hope,
Tis what awaits the foes.
Ebony crows flying thrice around,
Cackling in harsh cacophony of sound,
Calling for the Feast of Death.
Resigning to the gallows,
Where death becomes the hallows,
Where a man takes his final breath.
The noose swaying in a chilling breeze,
Swinging 'round like a demon tease,
Casting shadows under a brilliant full moon.
So a short drop
To a sudden stop,
Singing life's ending tune.
And so the crows sit and wait
On crumbling walls of stone
To gorge themselves on those of late,
Leaving behind noth' but bone.
These are the tales of horror told to I.
They told of what awaits me once I die.
And so I walk towards the noose.
It hangs above a wooden stool
And I am bound like a troubled fool.
Then there is the Hangman, big as a moose!
He wears a mask, black as night
With a hole for speech and holes for sight.
His hands are rough as he readies the rope.
Around my neck the loop is put
By the man with his mask like soot.
I wonder how my throat will cope.
The Hangman moves out of view.
I know what he is about to do.
He pulls the leaver, opening the door...
...And down I drop
To a sudden stop.
I can breathe no more.
I twist and jerk, thrash about,
Just trying to swallow air.
But then there's not a single doubt
I'm entering Death's lair.
I dangle loose
From the hanging noose
Cold and still and dead.
They left me there
For the crows to share.
Not a single tear was shed...