It's a savage tale that I come to tell
Of Peter De'Ath and his mortal shell,
Of his winsome grin forgotten by sin,
The knives and the pipes that kept him so thin.
His floral axe with sugar filigree
Was blunted on foes his love plucked from trees;
Sour and hectoring, they needled with rhyme
His gut, not his guts, his weakness to time.
Crows' feet brought vanity, hid it so well
Under blubber and wrinkles and the smell
Of ego decayed. He spurned the divine
Seeing only the flesh; paid for youth's mask
With the fruits of his soul, vinegary whine
His pickled palate and bile by the flask.
Peter, Peter, a mortal metre
Measure him against the whole nine yards
Peter, Peter, ageing cheater
Sneaking, peeking at Fate's cards
The mask is angelic, worthy its price,
That fools all who wear it, don't look inside
And see beauty as finite, man's device,
Sculpted once more for the fad not the tide.
The axe parted oceans, its amber haft
Slew phantasms of hope, such fragile craft
Made of words and ideals and paper faith.
With each casual swing it called on the wraith
And fused to his hand, which it never left,
So hand became haft, heart became bereft.
What use is a mask you cannot remove
Or features not yours you cannot disprove?
It is a shallow path to take to Hell;
Pity him not, nor forget him as well.
