The Blight Of God's Acre

He's a seaside side-show freak armed with the tools of the trade
Standing in shadow by cemetery gates
The revenant tenants of this tenement yard
Raise two fingers to the fates
No solace to be found in their foetid tombs
He at leisure to violate those catacomb wombs.

Plots twist with hosts yet unwilling
Last sods of earth clawed away
He knows they know what he knows
Polite enough to knock upon the lid of each box
To await their invitation before being so bold
Cracked heart stutters in hollow chest so cold.

So, sunk deep in festering flesh, their baubles stripped at leisure
Guiltless here, without compassion. Taking pleasure in their corruption
It all gets worse when he finds a fresh one
To be carted off as contraband for the medical profession.

So, nefarious urges sated, pockets a-brimming with shining trinkets
He plays at brother Magpie's games. Heart a flutter of oily black
Leaning back against a monument, heedless of inscription
A stolen cigarette fumbled from a hidden poacher's pocket.

He may yet take a moment to ponder
Upon the marble town of Yonder
And maybe just a trice to wonder
Why her bone orchard saplings never say a word
And only come out to play, when he requests admission
Then assuming rite of passage, in decayed passage ways.

So he loads his barrow with the fruits of God's acre
And all away upon his toes he goes
To shower his bone sore friends in their ivory sewers
With gifts all rent asunder
But all willing, unresisting. Spoiled fruits of plunder.