Buried In Woods On a Snowy Evening
BURIED IN WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING (With apologies to Robert Frost)
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.
by © ron arbuthnot
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