Chopping block

We’re all waiting for our turn on the block,

My family is gone and I can hear the clock.

The executioner chops us up one by one

We’re waiting in a pile, burned by the sun.

We scream for mercy but the hangman can’t hear

The pitch of our screams too high for his ear.

I see an opening and I flee, I flee!

Stumble on the bodies of the mass around me.

The hangman sees me and chooses me next

I can’t resist, it’s like I were hexed.

Sets me on the block, prepares his ax,

I pass out and my body does relax.

The hangman chops and I am no more,

Next one to the block, an endless chore.


In the head of the hangman at that time:

“Oak is hard, my ax is past its prime.”


One gets funny ideas when chopping firewood, as there’s quite a lot of time to think while axing stuff.


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