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THE EXECUTIONER In the stillness of a hall The people of the town convene Men and children, one and

all Witness a macabre scene Quietus comes for man in thrall Whose true construction, unforeseen Seems to have no depth at all Til fate sees fit to intervene

The executioner seems unsettled Though he does naught but his vocation He wields his grimly polished metal And plants his feet with enervation He swallows a breath and lowers his head And waits until he hears the command His arms are languished, made of lead The juncture of death is now at hand But then He stops: The executioner stops and thinks Deliriously deliberates. Discerning, then, his only foe The executioner deals the blow