FatherTime

Into our town the Hangman came Smelling of gold and blood and flame— And he paced our bricks with a diffident air And built his frame on the courthouse square. The scaffold stood by the courthouse side, Only as wide as the door was wide; A frame as tall, or little more, Than the capping sill of the courthouse door. And we wondered, whenever we had the time, Who the criminal, what the crime, The Hangman judged with the yellow twist Of knotted hemp in his busy fist. And innocent though we were, with dread We passed those eyes of buckshot lead; Till one cried: “Hangman, who is he For whom you raise the gallows-tree?” Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye, And he gave us a riddle instead of reply: “He who serves me best,” said he, “Shall earn the rope on the gallows-tree.” And he stepped down, and laid his hand On a man who came from another land. And we breathed again, for another’s grief At the Hangman’s hand was our relief. Roblox won't let me finish the poem.