The People of the Grave

Mr. Clive, a slick one is he!
His blood lust he did not attempt to control;
This tiny community, barely on the map,
But it will be with his crusade of triple-digit death toll!

The first was the farmer and his wife,
Then the bludgeoned slave;
The little girl, still unidentified today,
His heart as cold and lifeless as the deepest cave.

The Shopkeeper and the Postmaster,
Found with ropes upon their necks;
With a deafening nitro explosion,
The Stable-hand and a rider claimed in the wreck.

Mr. Clive, impossible to track,
There has not been a single identifiable clue;
No soul to tell a tale,
If he only knew!

The lifeless bodies, into the graveyard are mounting,
More dead than alive now, horrid truth;
He is feeding a hunger, growing hot,
A ravenous Bloody tooth.

Haven Cemetery is restless,
When there should be rest;
They are whispering to each other,
Angry whispers...upon th wind crest.

Time is marching forward,
Not departed from each other for more than a short span,
The Desk Clerk, the Doctor, and his nurse just last week,
Delivered to Haven by this despicable man.

The whispers are growing louder,
The excitement is at a peak;
There is a truth out there,
And the Wind begins to speak.

The detectives from far away have come,
They are coming for Mr. Clive;
A suicidal shot, he thought death an escape,
...but he is still alive!

A chorus is echoing, because the people have a plan,
The Constable, the Metal Worker and the Clergy too;
Mr. Clive's burial is today,
Retribution is due.

Moved along the cemetery in his funeral cart,
He can feel a yearning;
109 hungers, not unlike his own,
There is no escape, bleakly disconcerting.

His own mother, not 500 feet oft,
Screaming into his brain like a banshee;
There is rage upon Heaven, Earth, and somewhere else,
Now he can see!

Sunk into the Earth, the final UNREST place,
Mr. Clive, the cowardly knave;
His finally been introduced to his victims,
The People of the Grave.