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Wind deadens through the Gallow Woods
as woeful moonlight hanging broods.
Few men would chance the all night stare
by victims with the broken goods.

They creak and swing with twisted cares
of spiteful, often brooding mares.
The mumbled names at Whisp’ring Rock
become the weights the taut rope bears.

On feathered trees, that smoky flock
will pimp their wings, their cawings mock
the freer men believing they
were rid of gallow’s twisted knot.

The swinger’s pain, hopeless display,
with whispered cares to tortured sway,
and some are fallen in dismay,
perchance to hang another day.

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