I have a story to begin, and no.
This is not a story that will
end in joy or happiness,
this is a tale of a man of iron,
of lead, and death.
There was a man born quiet, and in blood
left in the mud from day one, like common crud.
A problem left on cold grey, by a man
madder than mad and badder than bad,
sad in his grief from the loss,
stricken with hate from a birth,
There was a man but a babe,
left on the grey and in the wet
of a unfortunate night, one that would surely
lay claim on an innocent soul,
but—here is the question I ask you,
so bask in thought, take your time,
can one be guilty from birth?
For the future mayhem,
and pain he will bring?
We will come up with our own answers,
just as the reaper gave his
perhaps he saved the man to be,
for he was the innocent babe. Maybe
this baby, born in blood, was touched
by the skeleton hand of death; turned life.
He might have saw the brand of his fate,
and banded with the man to be,
for the lives he would send to
the scythe before the ferry.