One of the better poems of my early years…but hardly less morbid…
Over the big hills the small army marched
Right up and through the king’s wide arch
Neither right nor left did they turn to look
And so for comrades they were mistook
Up into the King’s large room they poured
And slaughtered him there with knife and sword
Down into the court yard again they did flow
And fought to the death with knife and bow
Nary a soul was left on that day
And bodies were strewn like fresh mown hay
~Copyright 2002