The executioner with the short attention span
Sometimes fails to finish his work.
The feathers on a lady's hat
Send him off into the crowd, and then into the fields,
Looking for a warbler
Or a milliner.
A certain condemned aristocrat, thus semi-reprieved,
Was left stumbling in circles, a broken clock,
Holding one hand to the bloody side of his neck,
The other still unblemished as a girl's.
The distracted executioner is called on the carpet.
He is censured by the king himself,
Though it comes down from corporate.
Five minutes later,
He has forgotten it all and is riding a tiny tricycle through the stone-cobbled streets,
Trailed by a snotty, wailing child.
Say hello to the distracted executioner.
Lay your head here, please,
If it helps, pretend you are at the salon for a shampoo;
Many have pleaded for mercy,
While others have spat and cursed as you do.
Will you be saved by a passing minstrel's tune,
Pardoned by a colorful butterfly?
Or will your head roll like a bowling ball,
Blinking in sudden surprise?
Your fate rests, it seems to me,
With the shifting vagaries,
The chance inanity,
Of a buffoon elevated to deity.