Buried In Woods On a Snowy Evening

BURIED IN WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING Whose woods these are, mox nix to me, both dead and buried, she must be, to bother me, not one more time, but sleep forever; endlessly. Though thought of still, as perfect crime, (it made my life a downhill climb,) tis none the less, I must admit, the joy of me, all of the time. And smile I must, with thought of it, the slicing of her throat a bit, and struggling, oh! how she tried! whilst I enjoyed her dying fit. Her eyes now crossed, as if she spied, her life and death on either side, and so I gouged them both in fun, for every time she ever lied! She begged for mercy--there was none! Her legs were dead, she couldn't run, and with her throat cut, couldn't cry, nor could I, whilst I had such fun! Her pleas are still my lullaby, I've lots of time to wonder why, and years to go before I die. and years to go before I die. © Ron Wilson Arbuthnot aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet