by Nick Gisburne
The slaughter of the Woebegones begins.
Unlocking the extermination tanks,
We slice the marks of treason from their skins,
The sacred signs with which they offer thanks.
But this one is unusual, somehow.
The razor fails to separate his flesh.
Through bloody, broken teeth, we hear him vow
To burn us all, and build the world afresh.
This mongrel speaks of prophecy and pain,
As though his myths are real, his torment not.
He swears, with undeniable disdain,
That we, the unbelievers, will be shot.
His people face the furnaces, and sing,
To celebrate the killing of their king.
