The Innkeeper

The death penalty. What a laugh And their pulling on strings To keep this going As their money bags swing Lifelessly From left to right. How dare they take an old mans Walking stick. How dare they beat their wives, Breaking the rule of thumb. What catastrophe could place This sodden child in their Arms tonight. She withers with fright And is ever watchful of The innkeeper Who is paying his debt To society with offhand eyes. It is not the pangs of living That silences her pleading. Nor is it the throttler With his sweaty palms so bleak. It's not the putrid taste of Tomorrows casualties Or the attempts to stop the bleeding. It is the innkeeper Who is regarded as the man who Sells perjury by the mouthfuls. The innkeeper With his iron stomach and Scruples drunk On sloth and negligence. This wear and tear child Can spot his hands through The arched back of her manipulator. His knuckles are white. His knuckles are screaming And singing the song of lechery While he's avoiding whimpers Of an exploited adolescent. Avoiding interrogation.