In the night an Invisible
Assassin preys upon the weak and weary.
The assassin carries the scythe of death
And the freedom...
To bring upon this would be a relief
to the one who carried out the woeful act
that night, down by the river.
His mind is heavy with burden and bourbon. His hands
Always red, as if stained
By the darkest of crimson
Inks. Oh how the soloemn peace of death
Would be very welcome.
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