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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The bowl of fruit left on the table to wither and rot by those unable. Those whose minds are shattered by death, whose minds are weakened and bereft. There cliché exhibit they concede, tells of their leal for their dead lief. We sing a laud then leave lento, yet I looked back to see her alone. So lane she was there by the lich, so many did call here a dirty bitxx. But with my eyes, I saw the effete look, how loyal she was, the good food she cooked. The mirth she shown, and the love she gave. yet only to him after a work-long day. Yes, I recall what the others dare not, when time was, he wasn’t, the daft old sot. When he came home, so decorous from work, to see his wife & daughter, and son named Dirk. There was an air of happiness everywhere, there wasn’t the slightest thought for tear. But Dirk went away, to war, and died, never had a chance to live his life. Someone raped and shot the daughter, they didn’t find the one who got her. His barn caught fire not long ago well he didn’t have much then anymore. With this all happening in six fortnights, it was no surprise he was drunk most nights. Then three nights ago he found that man, story goes the sot chopped off his left hand. The killer wasn’t drunk, so he beat the old man, beat him with everything but his left hand. The killer ran off to save himself, as the screams of the sot finally brought help. Still the shameful same, it was too late, The sot lay dead with a sliced-up face. yes, that’s the story of how it was, Why did they blame it on her? Well because, you see there’s a witch; gypsies knew about, And after the old sot died, it was all let out. How she lost her left hand, three nights ago, . . they say there’s going to be a burnin, you know. . . . come along . . . won’t you?
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