The Executioner's Lament

A poem describing the routine and lamentation of an executioner.

Nature dictates living and dead,
Decides who rules and who does not.
Those who slay for gain lose their head,
Their one death mark a red scarf knot.
The executioner who takes
Their heads, a tired sigh he makes.
He guides condemned by their cloth neck,
Subdued to follow call-and-beck.
Going into the cold white hills,
Resting the trunk on a spruce stump
He beheads the brute with a thump.
From the bare neck the hot blood spills.
Executioner says, “Alas,
Rotten blood does not feed the grass!”