The Executioner

The sun beating down on the Market Square
People gathered around, they have time to spare
I peer through my black mask. I counted four score
In the bucket of chalk I rub my hands to prevent sores

Sweat beading down my face I dare not reveal
The red hot sun reflecting off my tool’s blade of steel
Here he comes marching up, the star of the show
The crowd cheer as he is led by a priest walking very slow.

The Priest is reading, “Yea, though I walk through the valley…”
He stops and waits for a trumpeter’s rally,
“…of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil….”
Always sends shiver up my spine makes me feel all primeval

He steadily approaches the platform where he negotiates two steps
Hands chained together sweat pouring and glistening off his biceps
He stands in front of me the drummers drum the death roll
He smiles at me, a tear falls from his eye and drips from his facial mole

I offer him a black hood to cover his face
Which he accepts from me with courtesy and grace
Either side of him a jailer stands firmly by
I give the nod they lower him to his knees, his head held high

Any last request is asked of him, to which he said no
His head lowered to the chopping block he twitches his toes
He passes urine and a foul smell emanates from him too
This happens every time even if they have been to the loo

Fear overcomes their bodily functions you see
They cannot control their bowel movements or pee
The crowd go silent the drums get louder still
I pick up my axe loft it into the air and with an eerie chill

Everything is silent even the birds in the sky
Just for that split second that the axe is held high
With a swift downwards movement I aim the axe at his neck
A thud his heard as the chopper hits the platform deck

The head rolls into the basket, blood all over the floor
I pick the head up by its hair the crowd ask for more
As I raised the head up high it splattered me with blood
However I weren’t too bothered, I was feeling very good

It is not that often I sever a head with the axe in one go
I usually have to get out the knife and hack at it to and fro
Nobody wants to see me butcher somebody’s throat
They want a clean cut as they’ve paid me 5 Groats.


C. Paul Reynoldson 2007