The Butcher’s Choice

Whittle a stick to a whale-bone tooth-pick
Shark-appeal to the girl in the mustard colored jumper
Caught in the cross-hairs, the trees were burning
Turning heads as the leaves were turning
Meet the man who handles the broom
that sweeps the leaves in the Reptile Room.

The Reptile Room, my name for the places
where murder occurs on a daily basis
The sour scent of another one’s sweat
A tufted niche to hedge one’s bets
White light glimmers on the edge of the blade
The Ice Man cometh, ‘tis the age of decay

The Iceman cometh and all laid out on the butcher’s counter
The choicest cuts for the briefest encounter
Your new-found taste for the old cut ‘n’ paste
is just such a waste of my talents
And to cut to the chase through satin and lace
can hardly redress the balance
But the balance of power swings your way
As I circle the whirlpool of lies
‘Till the sweetest release as the gold cockatrice
breathes cyanide into my eyes

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