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.