The man was built for hanging high
His cheek, his grin and witty sigh
Don’t keep the fool from losing face
He staggers, and trips down from grace.

He reaches out and grabs ahold
Of fine string spun from finest gold
Sly beauty slices through to bone
He grits his smile and swings, alone.

He wraps himself around the rope
Encircled in the golden hope
And swings a bit above the dirt
Isolated in his hurt.

The grass house people come to point
Reusing laughter to anoint
When darkness drains he’ll swing there still,
Clutching at a dead man’s will.