When Death comes marauding and swings his scythe
In swathes of violent hues that split the skies,
The airborne pale hooves thundering
And skeletal soul plundering
Bounce off the town of Went and no one dies.
Death hauls in the reins and draws a fiery arc.
From horizon to horizon burns his bloody mark.
His smirk is now a rictus
And his scream is maledictus
As he stalks the town below like a bony shark.
The people beneath walk about and pay no heed
To the shadowy figure looming on his pale-skinned steed.
Their hearts are resolute
And the town hall spire a one-fingered salute.
To wail and gnash and rend their clothes they have no need.
Nowhere in this town can you find a gun.
No hatred of a different-coloured neighbour to turn a knife upon.
Though different creeds there are aplenty
The prison cells are empty;
No one feels the need to just look after number one.
The townsfolk have planted hedges in communal rows
That trace saw-teeth against the sky like sharpened dominoes.
Death swoops down and cuts his arse,
Shreds his shroud on ground-up glass,
Breaks his wrist and twists his neck and bloods his nose.
Without the tools of his trade Death lies unmasked.
His only hope is that sickness complete his morbid task.
But the hungry here are fed,
Their doctors’ bills to all are spread,
And no natural causes are currently forecast.
Across the land fires burn in merry bands
That scorch the earth and boil the seas and glass the sands.
Yet a patch of green remains,
Lazy blue rivers and leafy lanes,
Where the town hall of the town of Went so proudly stands.