Crimson droplets cascade down
the face of the dying man,
excitement bit the crowd
of ladies and gentlemen alike.
No one dared to breathe,
for the air was like cyanide to their lungs,
like reality crashing and burning
their hegemonic ways.
One stone, two stones, three stones;
now they've lost count
of the lives that have been ruined,
the families torn apart.
Go, now, home and feast
on the purest of fruits and souls.
Go, now, home and wrap thee in sheets
of spotless white, of thick coverage.
And pray to the God
you know little about, believe little in,
that you shall remain prosterous forever.