While wondering through the grape vines in the land of milk and honey.
I stopped to pick some flowers out in the open sun.
The roses had sharp thorns and I thought it rather funny.
I was dripping crimson blood down upon the chosen one.
Now the chosen one was drooping for the weight was hard to
My laughter grew much louder as I saw how it did fare.
Yellow petals now despoiled, still I didn't seem to care.
My blood would now forevermore be its cloak to wear.
I went along my merry way to gather up the grapes.
When I found my basket full I returned it to my master.
On seeing the wound upon my hand, he asked me of my fate.
So I lied and I told him of a small and trivial disaster.
It was later in the day when my master called my name.
When I did approach him, his face was twisted in pain.
He was pointing at the chosen one as if to lay the blame.
In knowing of my guilt, I hung my head in shame.
Now I have a place of prominence high above the chosen one.
You can see me each and every day out in the open sun.
Although I now am famous, I never more will lope.
It seems I'll spend eternity here, hanged by the hangman's rope!
Michael R. Roth