The blood running down the street
In the gutters, seeping between the cobbles,
Stains my shoes.
The baskets are full,
Their contents defiantly biting
At each other's noses
I imagine claw-like fingers
Digging into scraggy throat-flesh
The lying mouth, gasping, and gnashing teeth.
The blades are speckled red,
The varnished wood is tarnished
And the crowds dispersed.
A ball of wool marks a vacant spot
And, at last, the Ravens
Have been tempted from the tower.
There is no bread
The butter is all gone
But still, the guns don't care.
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