by Nick Gisburne
I memorise the murders, rich and red
But clearest are the last to feel my hand
The screams, the painted patterns as they bled
The tortured minds, collapsed at my command
I take a simple souvenir, the shoes
Perhaps a strange, unsavoury receipt
While others claim a finger, I refuse
Their journey started, ended, with their feet
My wife displays no meaningless remorse
She strips the bodies, clean and cold and bare
And as we serve new friends their final course
Recounts the grisly, villainous affair
The Friday banquet, always such a treat
In seven days our guests become the meat
