by Nick Gisburne
The marshals call at midnight, to the house
They do not smile, but whisper what I’ve done
In shock, I show the shooting of my spouse
The blurred, recorded stranger with a gun
The snake of slander slides around my feet
And in the hands of justice hides a lie
My mandatory lawyers plead defeat
Surrendering to better men than I
How cold the legal breezes on my face
How sharp the horns of those who seal my fate
Condemned by every letter of the case
I find the game surrendered, check and mate
The sentence: seven thousand days of pain
A piece-by-piece removal of the brain
