The hour sets the scene for slaughter.
Lady Danger knows it well and rings the bell,
Beckoning the burgers-to-be
And bludgeoning their brains
She knows the long sip that will coax them in,
Those children dressed for the graveyard cotillion.
She pinches each cheek
“My, but it's been a dog's age” she crows,
And they flock to her grinder:
Her character machine.
They will soon know her game.
They will be more than food for gluttons,
But there is blood on the Lady's hands.
It pleases her and terrifies them.
“Murder!” they cry on the tongue's last waggle.
She giggles as they tumble into her glass, bobbing.
They are only bone below the neck,
But there is more meat in the marrow
Then in the moral majority.
When all is said and done,
When every scrap is crimson clay,
Play is all that remains
And Lady Danger can sled the hill on humeri.