Cold Poetic Justice
When an evil man walks – for a hundred days
across the frozen plains,
carrying deep in his belt the gold coins
undeservedly in his possession, the spoils
extorted from the frightened men
the villagers from beneath the mountains
When he sings, on the last day of winter,
so gleeful for spring
tomorrow will come
equip him with riches, so safe and so dry
and when he falls on the last stretch
into hidden pockets of melting ice
And there he dies, no coin will he keep
he had his becoming, and thus we must weep
but not with sorrow, instead with joy
he met deservedly his fate, no longer so coy
the darlings shall live long, the bastards shall die
for so it is ordered up there in the sky,
right behind the doors to the halls of poetic justice
Roman Trend
