He was hung at the top of the hill,
Where the gallows stood tall, and black and still,
Where no flowers bloom at all, And the air, a constant chill,
Where villagers point and mumble,
Shouting taunts and jeers at will,

He was hung, for the theft of some bread,
The baker's boy caught him, as he pointed and said,
"Father, come quick!! Go Sound the alarm!!,"
And before he could run, he was caught by the arm.

No fair trial in those days, it was straight to the noose,
A grumbling stomach, was a shallow excuse,
There was no relating, to his jury of peers,
Noble men, fed and plump, without hunger for years.

And then all of the fears, screaming inside his head,
Were confirmed, when the judge slammed his gavel and said,
"For this crime, you will hang, from the neck until dead".

He was lead to the top of the hill, as he stumbled,
Where he stood in the rain, fully noosed, broke and humbled,
The trap door fell away, as the villagers mumbled,
And he choked, until dead, as his stomach still rumbled.
© James Moynihan