by Nick Gisburne
How elegant, the flowers on the grave
From those of us who longed to see him dead
Remembering the punishments he gave
Sadistic whippings, beatings, till we bled
A brute, a thug, a villain, he believed
That reverence for infamy is all
And poisoned by perversity conceived
A scheme to scratch his name on every wall
But history is littered with the weak
A catalogue of sinners, on their knees
The scum, the human filth, of whom I speak
Was dirty with unspeakable disease
The universe finds pleasure in the joke
Whenever men, too sick to prosper, choke
