As with a sheep to be slain for lunch
The fiery angel leads the plump pit out
With a victor’s smile carved mischievously
On that gravel head of the mocking major
Earth fashions a dreadful dirge
For the tainted touches of Delilah’s desert.
The jagged gaoler tramps ahead, hesitant
Rethinking the gory glory foreshadowed
Yet in his shaky hands rise the eager keys
Prepared to open hell’s dusky door
For the drill in the heathen’s haven
Dedicated to doses of wicked weeds and ugly urges.
Suspense chokes the air the pit pulls
And only the sun can hear her choking silence
Cords of crushed cakes fill her thoughts
And the capital caterer must bake another
She anticipates decidedly the double mining
And favours no fear for the fracas forecasted.
Ushered like a princess into the slaughterhouse
By the alluring thoughts in the minds of the tools
Wet and withered, winged wools flap fast
The major follows his just mission to the pit
Unthreatened by her poignant push and pull
Delivering loud letters to expectant executor.
Between the birth and death of night
Naive eyes find the soaked major mild and sated
And the hungry hangman, the pit has also fed
Tick…tock…time just travelled and light returns
Out with the happy horse and thrilled dog
The pit giggles, still feeling as dry as a damp desert.