The Tyburn Tree
The Tyburn wagon halts at every inn.
Tight stinking alleys
cobblestones and gin.
The condemned drink their fill,
none fear falling ill.
Harlots cackle and screech
the condemned grow horny.
The Hanging Tree accommodates
three at a time.
Six limbs a’ waving,
bladders and bowels voiding
- drink now to the dangling.
A canting debauchery
spends its copper penny.
Hungover Londoners swear
‘off the wagon,’
but look here comes another:
Pass the flagon!
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment