Under The Tree Where The Bodies Hang

Under the tree where the bodies hang swaying, dancing in the gelid breeze neath their rotting toes, the children sang; slow circling a boy; they taunt and tease. "It's your father and your mother, too," they chant, as one, fiery eyes aglow, "Who dance on the rope, and soon will you." to the cadence of a cawing crow. "We'll slice you up and cook us a stew." the chant gets faster. Each takes a knife "Then we'll boil your bones and make some glue." thirteen stabs put an end to a life. They braise the boy, then each they follow from dark black cauldron upon a fire; of steaming stew, they take a swallow; each with each other, they now conspire. "We sliced you up and cooked us a stew." the singing slows as the children fill "And no one cares because no one knew." soon, sleep takes over the early thrill. Wolf was waiting on the edge of dark thirteen children who once danced and sang become just a stain, a bloody mark; under the tree where the bodies hang.