by Nick Gisburne
I will not let this jury dice with doubt.
Its verdict, as the record will report,
Demands appalling pain for those who flout
The twisted laws protected by this court.
Your penalty, my final word, is this:
Enforced infection, fed to skull and skin,
A sentence my discretion might dismiss,
If only you were not my closest kin.
These tumours are too cancerous to heal.
Relentless, they will mutilate the face,
And, as the sores erupt, your flesh will feel
A suffering no potion can displace.
My clerk will now dispense the final meal
Of those who thought to sponsor your appeal.
