Thee

On one gruesome midnight summer’s eve,

There did a trail of blood to see,

Tell a tale so woefully still,

That a heart could beat and the breath it chill.

 

That pitiful pile of a man to be,

Desolate rags covered deem,

It murder of the utmost kind,

And the right to bear the sorrow in mind.

 

The death of a friend, and one so dear,

The horrible screams, such to hear,

That crying almost too insane to bear,

Even for those who truly did not care.

 

That hallowed ground, haunted it be,

By the one our souls only know as… THEE.

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