The Man

Today we are burying The Man for the third time,

And we hope that this time will be his last affair.

The first time we buried The Man,

He had been shot dead,

With a single bullet hole,

Going right into his head.

The killer cried for mercy,

As they charged him at trial,

It was a demon he said,

Arguing against our denial.

But then The Man,

A stranger to town,

Rose from his grave,

Wearing a frown.

It was eerie and strange,

Something no one could explain,

Why this man should be dead,

Lying still with no pain.

With The Man walking about,

It was hard to charge the other with death,

So he was charged with attempted murder,

Changing our minds as we all held our breath.

The second time we buried The Man,

He had been cooked to a crisp,

Locked in an oven,

Leaving nought but a wisp.

The ashes were layed out,

Gently and with fear,

On a sunny hillside,

Where none shed a tear.

The culprit we found out,

Was a well known thief of earned pay,

And the trial was again so clear,

Deliberating took merely a day.

But once more,

Before the verdict rang out,

The Man reappeared,

Causing many to shout.

His face was half formed,

And he seemed to be made of dirt,

Eyes and pores leaking fine silt,

Forming a tattered brown shirt.

This time the priest,

Who had attended the hearing,

Took out his holy water,

Heaving it towards the presence overbearing.

The Man began to shriek,

His falling dirt turning red,

His body stopped forming,

Leaving everyone with a sense of dread.

Looking half human,

The once-man now stood,

His degraded features,

Creating a nightmarish hood.

He laughed just once,

And said in stride,

Of course it was the priest,

Splashing me, that would cause me to die.

Today we are burying The Man for the third time,

And we hope that this time we will end this nightmare.