It’s gruesome at the end!

Our final entry is a tale of the macabre ritual taking place in nearly every home in America this very day. For anyone who thinks the sacrificial act is ancient history, the practice of heathens, I offer you Truth of My Demise by SA Lawrence.

 

Truth of My Demise

If you’re faint of heart, then I ask you not to read
As I vividly describe the horrors done to me
In retrospect I offer this brief soliloquy
In hopes that justice might make these hoodlums pay

On a cool brisk autumn morning with dew upon the ground
I sat alone meditating, the sun above me shining down
Off I heard a turtle dove cooing softly on the breeze
Not noticing the scoundrels stealthily sneaking behind me

They took me to a house of which I’d never seen before
And carried me around the back and through the kitchen door
They placed me on a table with newspapers all around
And shoved a knife inside me, there was no hope to be found

They shoved a spoon inside me and scrapped away the guts within
Then with an evil gleam they started cutting me again
As they continued, the horror suffered is painful to describe
The morbidity of this may make one feel queasy deep inside

They cut away my nose and left a morbid frightful mess
And as to what they started next was maniacal at best
The shoved the knife into my face and cut away the rest
They carved a gruesome smile while laughing and making jest

They set my hollowed carcass on the porch that night you see
And to add humility to it they placed a candle inside of me
They left me out there all night long in the damp and cold night air
Like a trophy from a conquest they left me sitting there

But these charlatans were not finished; no they weren’t done with me
The worst was yet to come when finally morning came to be
They carried me inside and on the kitchen table once again
Then like before, they took a knife and to my back they shoved it in

These Cretans took the pieces to an oven and put me in
Cooking down my body into a mush to use again
This travesty continued as they made some pies from me
And served me as desert for all their friends to see

There’s no evidence to offer, not a crumb of pie crust left
My seeds were washed and toasted and shared amongst their guest
From the field they took me, they’re plowed and seeded once again
And the remnants of my existence are but a memory now my friend

Jack O’Lanturn Postscript©
SA Lawrence
Copyright :: All Rights Reserved
Registered :: Tue Oct 18 19:13:32 UTC 2011
Title :: Epitaff of Murder
Category :: Poetry

 

Fingerprint :: a2bebbd30d60a13592fc3bb8f9c6354bc7848721630cd3c45a8de6569b5955e8

Is it just me or is this one calling to be put to music?

I think it might be over the word limit but I’ll leave that for the judges to decide. For me, it provides a perfect lead in for the recipes we’ll be posting later today:)

There’s still time to comment/vote for your favorite entry…

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