The Ballad of The Skeleton King's Custodian
The skeleton king has a fearful hall
Where many are challenged and many fall,
Men and women face his wrath
And leave behind a bloody bath.
There’s only one drain on the uneven floor,
In each tile valley, a small pond of gore.
The room must be cleansed of every pool,
And that, my friends, is what I do.
My squeegee’s on the leg of a broom,
I wear my Wellington’s over my shoes
And make my paces, to and fro,
Pushing tides of blood as I go.
It appears so peaceful, when I’m alone,
The rippling liquid across the stone,
The serous voice flowing down the drain,
Vibrant and naive of recent pain.
In terracotta beneath the streets,
It dilutes and mixes and runs toward the sea,
And then each soul is free from the land,
of the skeleton king and his devilish band.
I guess I’m thankful, it could be worse,
I could be the one sating that brutal thirst.
As well as I can I ignore the slaughter,
But, still, I wish it were water.