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Round my neck the noose was tightened
And my head hung limp and lightened
Whilst apace my pulse was heightened
By my heartbeat's thunderous score.
Both my eyes too were divulging
My discomfort by their bulging,
Like the dance my feet indulged in
On the air above the floor.
Jerking, jinking to death’s grim tune
Two clear feet above the floor
And sweat poured from every pore.
As the rope was tightly squeezing,
My breath soon became a wheezing.
‘Twas unceasing and unpleasing
Pain like none I’d felt before.
I was left for hours suspending
From the hangman’s noose extending
Not one inch; ‘twas never ending,
The cruel torture that I bore.
You’d be premature in thinking
That this yoke was all I bore.
There was more, alas, in store.
The noose was cut but hope was dashed
When to a rack my joints were lashed
And I was naked, unabashed,
Like the babe my mother bore.
As my strained sinews were stretching,
With a grimace like an etching,
Drunk with laughter was I retching,
For I measured six feet four.
Since my boyhood I’d been wishing
That I’d sprout those inches four.
Be careful what you wish for.
Then I felt my joints decouple
As my limbs flailed limp and supple;
My stretched skin was a hue purple;
The winch turned till my flesh tore.
Upon the rack I heard a crack
And many more from front and back;
They heralded the rack’s attack
On my ribs, twenty and four.
They detached from spine and sternum
With a crack, all twenty four.
I was slack, rigid no more.
Next, my bare belly was cut in
Two beneath the belly button.
I was quartered like cheap mutton;
I was butchered like a boar.
The knife went through me like butter,
And yet whilst the callous cutter
Carved me up, I did not utter
A cry to make my throat sore.
Not for mercy nor for respite
Though my need was great and sore.
Not a whimper nor a roar.
And all the while blood spilled and spewed
And like a fountain was renewed
Afresh from vessels hacked and hewed;
'Twas a perpetual pour.
My innards outwards uncoiling;
I spied; it sent me recoiling,
Slipping, skidding, further soiling
A floor I was grateful for.
A crimson bed to rest my head;
A rest I was grateful for.
For my near-deadweight it bore.
What supposed crime’s so deserving
Of this torture so unnerving?
Why am I no sentence serving?
Need my death be such a chore?
What offence is it I’m masking
Beneath this poetic tasking?
This and more I hear you asking;
Does this gore settle some score?
All this rhyme and yet no reason
For this tale’s unsettling score.
My mind’s blank, I know no more.
For no time have I to wonder
What my past was nor to ponder
On my future, rent asunder
Like my body on the floor.
As I lay with my breath rasping,
Filling the air with my gasping,
To life’s worn thread clinging, grasping,
My mind turned to Gustave Dore.
That this tale of gothic gore might
Suit the brush of Gustave Dore
And give life to this death-lore.
Of my fate, please do not worry,
Nor for me should you feel sorry,
For though it’s been grim and gory,
Brave I stand before death’s door.
But not yet will I embrace you,
Grim Reaper, I will not face you,
Nor Satan or even Jesu,
Ere I pen these words and more.
But my strength, it wanes and drains;
I’ve just time for four words more.
Adieu now and evermore.
And my head hung limp and lightened
Whilst apace my pulse was heightened
By my heartbeat's thunderous score.
Both my eyes too were divulging
My discomfort by their bulging,
Like the dance my feet indulged in
On the air above the floor.
Jerking, jinking to death’s grim tune
Two clear feet above the floor
And sweat poured from every pore.
As the rope was tightly squeezing,
My breath soon became a wheezing.
‘Twas unceasing and unpleasing
Pain like none I’d felt before.
I was left for hours suspending
From the hangman’s noose extending
Not one inch; ‘twas never ending,
The cruel torture that I bore.
You’d be premature in thinking
That this yoke was all I bore.
There was more, alas, in store.
The noose was cut but hope was dashed
When to a rack my joints were lashed
And I was naked, unabashed,
Like the babe my mother bore.
As my strained sinews were stretching,
With a grimace like an etching,
Drunk with laughter was I retching,
For I measured six feet four.
Since my boyhood I’d been wishing
That I’d sprout those inches four.
Be careful what you wish for.
Then I felt my joints decouple
As my limbs flailed limp and supple;
My stretched skin was a hue purple;
The winch turned till my flesh tore.
Upon the rack I heard a crack
And many more from front and back;
They heralded the rack’s attack
On my ribs, twenty and four.
They detached from spine and sternum
With a crack, all twenty four.
I was slack, rigid no more.
Next, my bare belly was cut in
Two beneath the belly button.
I was quartered like cheap mutton;
I was butchered like a boar.
The knife went through me like butter,
And yet whilst the callous cutter
Carved me up, I did not utter
A cry to make my throat sore.
Not for mercy nor for respite
Though my need was great and sore.
Not a whimper nor a roar.
And all the while blood spilled and spewed
And like a fountain was renewed
Afresh from vessels hacked and hewed;
'Twas a perpetual pour.
My innards outwards uncoiling;
I spied; it sent me recoiling,
Slipping, skidding, further soiling
A floor I was grateful for.
A crimson bed to rest my head;
A rest I was grateful for.
For my near-deadweight it bore.
What supposed crime’s so deserving
Of this torture so unnerving?
Why am I no sentence serving?
Need my death be such a chore?
What offence is it I’m masking
Beneath this poetic tasking?
This and more I hear you asking;
Does this gore settle some score?
All this rhyme and yet no reason
For this tale’s unsettling score.
My mind’s blank, I know no more.
For no time have I to wonder
What my past was nor to ponder
On my future, rent asunder
Like my body on the floor.
As I lay with my breath rasping,
Filling the air with my gasping,
To life’s worn thread clinging, grasping,
My mind turned to Gustave Dore.
That this tale of gothic gore might
Suit the brush of Gustave Dore
And give life to this death-lore.
Of my fate, please do not worry,
Nor for me should you feel sorry,
For though it’s been grim and gory,
Brave I stand before death’s door.
But not yet will I embrace you,
Grim Reaper, I will not face you,
Nor Satan or even Jesu,
Ere I pen these words and more.
But my strength, it wanes and drains;
I’ve just time for four words more.
Adieu now and evermore.
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