Crowds gather at the stroke of noon
to see the dreadful deed,
the man whom fortune lost at birth;
to the Father’s gate they lead.
The rope bound tight and stout, no slack,
as fire burns beneath.
No parcel, package, bag, or post,
does he have to bequeath.
His family lost in blackened tar,
a weakened family tree,
as he, with tarnished soul and tread,
shall meet his misery.
Parting, then, a sweet release
from pain and bitter mob.
A final breath before the end,
his soul the people robbed.