The Gentleman

Only upon counting sheep,
Sorely does this gentleman sleep.
A dagger in his ribcage, a shotgun on his tongue,
His words tied to a clothesline, so eloquently strung.
Chained to a scaffold and condemned by his grave,
The gentleman shed the thickest blood, his mistress and his slave.
His eyelids trembled with loathing, his fingertips burned with hate,
But it was his irrevocable fear that sealed his unfortunate fate.
Such violent requiems as this should be silenced at the pulpit,
Dipped in acid, set ablaze, conspicuously split.





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