by Nick Gisburne
Umbrellas turn to keep the blood at bay
Though many crush the crimson to their skin
On this most joyous, diabolic day
The murder of the martyrs will begin
Excitement as the infidels arrive
Their naked shame defiled with powdered paints
Despised in death, their souls may still survive
Forgiven by the mercy of the saints
The bishop’s gaze is rigid, but remote
The glamour of the spectacle too long
With each new severed head and bleeding throat
He lifts a weary finger to the throng
When every damned depravity is done
The dead will burn, beneath a scarlet sun
