Roy McClees

Evil grew like a weed, and his name was Roy McClees. 
His dad hung by the hope, and his mother turned to stone. 
He had a crooked grin, with his left front tooth chipped in. 
Bone chilling laugh of course, a walking wretched corpse. 

Hell only knows where unholy outcasts go, but in this ravaged mind they feared to tread. 
And all will cheer when he finally disappears, for the Worn can close both eyes in bed. 

When he stood it was at a slant, daring the bold to take a chance. 
He’d look at them and leer, feeding on their darkest fears. 
The trees split when he screamed, and the chords tore at the seams. 
The blood from the younger years, ran down his face in tears. 

Hell only knows where unholy outcasts go, but in this ravaged mind they feared to tread. 
And all will cheer when he finally disappears, for the Worn can close both eyes in bed. 

Hell only knows if he was forced or if he chose, to let the violence wrap around his heart. 
The young and frail lift up their prayers to no avail, the hysteria will not depart. 

All the wise men were bleached and burned, and the sickness spread and churned. 
For the vagrant only acted on all that he gleamed and all that he thought he had learned. 
Is this what the weak deserve?

 

© 2012 Drover Shy.  All rights reserved. 

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