cul-de-sac

the child that begged bread received a gnawed bone
and was told to be thankful that he was not dead
that he should cultivate a sense of proper dread
and let his heart lose warmth and turn to flinty stone
recollecting always that life is short and you die alone
the weight of centuries falls on each small head
gaunt despair remains triumphant is has never fled
a mind once hopeful becomes a killing zone
let there be justice and who should the whip escape
a proper punishment would come upon us all
there's not one here who could not understand
the reason why the monster shuns its proper shape
why the dead king returns each night to the mead-hall
or why the bitter sword will turn in its master's hand