Crooked Ole tree


The rustic church stands by the crooked ole tree,
While vultures circled akin to a posse.
The tarnished bell still peals in the wind,
A forlorn toll to how the guilty sinned.
Stringin’ up an innocent cowpoke,
'Cause he dared to challenge town-folk.
The sheriff the biggest sinner of them all,
Just wanted to see this man crawl.
The rope burns still scar the crooked ole tree,
While vultures circled akin to a posse.
Though the cowpoke expired long ago, 
The town still suffers for no mercy though.
Cursin' them with his final breath,
The blight began the moment of death.
One by one the guilty painfully died,
Unrepentant, too full of foolish pride.
Hypocrites that went to church each week,
Praisin' the Lord for the truth they wouldn't speak.
Letting his remains rot on that ole tree,
Danglin' from a noose, swingin' macabre.
The overcast skies remain perpetually gray,
To eternally mourn who died that day.
Slowly the town faded into oblivion,
Forgotten that shameful unconfessed sin.
But… wait, there was a reminiscent one.
Weeping for the unspeakable deed done.
If truth be told she was the cause,
He confessed when she broke the laws.
She too afraid to accept the penalty,
She let him hang for her stupidity.
She weeps under the crooked ole tree,
While the vultures still circle akin to a posse.
An apparition cursed to mourn evermore,
Bitter tears, for a mistake unworthy dyin' for.