There beyond the carved
Black Iron wrought gate
Some miles down the dusty
Uneven road
You turn left and enter
The village of
The damned and the dead
--
The streets are full of
Bloated dead dog carcasses
Leather skinned men stand guard
At windows which have sad faces
Glued on to the panes
--
The rats have deserted
The village hotel, with its
Two rooms and sad kitchen
With everyone dead
No one has checked in
Since 1989
--
Only the tiny graveyard
Is tidy, with even
The stones glistening
In the sun
--
The dead don’t
Put up with crap
--
They come here everyday
With torches and pitchforks
To wail at the walls
And scale the gates
Begging to be
Let in
--
There no space for them here
No beds to spare
Too many mad men
Live here to let a
Few more in
--
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