The Mistake

Crushing, pounding, wrenching sadness
Washing o’er the gathered mob
Resulting from their vile black madness
For wandering few who’d rob
They strung them up and hung them dead
Ropes around their necks
Kick chair, jerk body, still head
Blood from noses, flecks
Then from the road a screeching lass
Who yelled, “..proceed no more!”
The twitching stopped, wind still as glass
Our boys were back from war
They left so young, they aged in battle
Many years ago
And now necks broken, gone death rattle
Lives of sons did flow

Posted from WordPress for Android by that guy that runs the place

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