by Nick Gisburne
We never had all this when I was young.
We dragged ’em, kicking, screaming, to the grave.
The criminals? Decapitated. Hung.
And war was all the work we’d ever crave.
Apprentice Death Facilitator Five,
I took the oath and wore my badge with pride.
I always kept it simple, smooth. I’d strive
To cut ’em clean. No fuss, no mess. They died.
The steel, the scythe, what better way to slay?
Just keep it sharp and swing it, I was taught.
But this? I wish I’d never seen the day.
A thousand years of reaping, all for naught.
Cremation’s taken over, on a whim.
They’ve got me sweeping ashes, and it’s grim.
