Down Wristmen’s Ridge
There’s a town with a bridge
That looks o’er a grave and a stream.
Lies in it the sheriff, who imposed a tariff,
To tax all the peasants on dreams.
The folk couldn’t stand it
They screamed and demanded, then carried him off in a rage.
Tied his neck to branches and cursed all his grandkids, then set to the jail with a blaze.
A banquet then followed, they drank and they swallowed their lies along beside their teeth. A secret was conceived, that gave birth to deceit, that rolled in the mud in the streets.
And the children were crooked, were heavy left footed, from kicking the weaker ones down. Just like their fathers, found themselves a martyr, and hung a flag made of her gown.
The houses will weep, as the evil blows in with the wind.
The church attic creaks, as the layers of dust settle in.
The sparrow will sleep, as the darkening twilight begins.
The willow man sneaks, and carves out his face with chagrin.
Silhouettes lay trapped beneath the fold
The demons crept into the icy cold
© 2010 Drover Shy. All rights reserved.