The Fatal Tree

A little look at Tyburn in London.

The Fatal Tree

Just a lad of seventeen
Swinging from that fatal beam
His journey from the prison cell
Worsened by the bells death knell
The crowds bay at his weak frame
Spitting and cursing his criminal name
Stopping the cart with the offer of ale
Slowly sipping from the bowl of liquid stale
The ordinary speaks in a monotonous verse
As he trundles along in the make shift hearse
The cart finally makes its final stop
And he is made to stand on the flimsy prop
Before the crowd he mutters a final word
Yet awash with noise it is never heard
The executioner signals for all to see
And leaves the offender hanging free
Just a lad of seventeen
Swing from Tyburn’s fatal beam