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.
Copyright © Samantha Mcdougal | Year Posted 2006
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