Iconic Image 4 ( Poem )

We lured him to the wine cellar,
away from his inner sanctum,
the holy of hollies
where fat, wealthy women,
and giggling girls
worshipped and delighted in him,
indulged the height
of his libidinous appetites -
all to our embarrassment,
because they were our sisters, daughters
and some our mothers.
We fed him sweetbread
laced with arsenic and lye,
flanked him with dark humor,
false cheesy smiles
as we waited for him to die.
his system was cast-iron -
constitution even stronger,
And between cracked, chipped teeth,
picket-fenced in a reeking mouth,
he spewed out diabolic laughter,
demanding more wine and sweetbread -
and we gladly obliged him.
He sang songs, danced, and told lurid jokes,
peppered with prophylactic intrigues,
amorous and clandestine escapades
of the royal court.
We were nobility - aristocrats,
he a peasant, a self-proclaimed holy man,
A tatterdemalion in ragged garb.
We were jealous - envied him;
his power, wealth and popularity
with the throne and unruly masses.
Surely and secretly
we wanted to be like him.
He was taking centuries to die;
then suddenly he hurled ear-piercing
and mind-numbing curses-
gave us the finger,
spat and toasted his ass
and penis in our direction.
As he charged,
we returned volleys of invectives;
produced our hidden arsenals:
clubs, knives and pistols.
He was a Hugh chunk of man,
fighting as if death was nonexistent,
and victory inevitably his.
We bludgeoned, kicked, stabbed him,
snatched his member from his crotch,
violated his bowels with hoe-down kicks;
then dumped his mutilated body
in freezing waters, clapped our hands,
gave high fives, clicked our heels in celebration.

We, having been judged by a jury of our peers,
were found, Not Guilty,
because we had killed a devil -
We the nobility - aristocrats.