The Halls of the Lost Loved Ones
Two little 'uns, she said, rustling in her tum,
Two of 'em, she said, that make twain at the sum.
I've two o'them, she said, lying still on her bed,
But what'f one doth not stay in 'er stead?
A kick and shove, the shots of the guns,
Naught's more in the halls of the lost loved ones,
A scream and a wail, thou will not skirt death,
And 'scape the scarred hands that shall suffocate breath.
"One's coming," she cried; in her heart she had died;
"I told you," It called, "I will not be defied."
It kicked and It shoved and It brandished Its guns,
Naught's more in the halls of the lost loved ones.
"I am Death," It cried back, "and I sought half the lot,
Your crying is naught, to me your baby will be brought."
And It reached out to one, caught her tiny hand in his,
Death cradled that baby in a fiendish whizz.
Sarah kicked and she shoved and fought with her might,
But Death would not let her 'scape into the night.
And then she came out, just that little one sun,
And she left for the halls of our lost loved one.
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