The Bastard Who Steals

Second for second,

Year for year,

Come all ye faithful,

Come listen and hear,

Hear the old tale, of the bastard who steals.

Born to a wise man,

Whose knowledge was saved,

Leaving his son, alone and depraved.

He'd soon find his days filled with lonesome sorrow,

No clear path left for him to follow.

He started to wander into the pressure,

Until he soon noticed, he's surrounded by treasure.

He could only restrain himself for so long

Until he fell into darkness headlong.

The thief kept grabbing, taking, stealing,

It was terrible, disgusting, but he just had that feeling.

A feeling of want, a feeling of need,

A need for the most, material greed.

His path brushed him on, for many a year,

Until all dissolved, especially fear.

He boasted of banks, he boasted of chapels.

There wasn't a sticky job the thief couldn't tackle.

It began with a bet, a game of some sort.

But it would soon drive his career short.

"The old rotted cabin, down by the lake.

No thief will rob it, the danger is too great."

He scoffed at the thought, there's nothing he needed,

But the bounty piled up, so by greed, he proceeded.

The cabin was old, rotted, and empty,

Near nothing to steal, but a bottle of whiskey.

He lifted the bottle, an immediate smack,

It wouldn't be the first time getting caught in the act.

There in the doorway, a figure stood brooding,

Waiting for movement, his presence was looming.

The thief tried his best, in his charismatic ways,

But the figure, unmoving, stood like an awful daze.

The thief tried a match book, and light up a candle.

But the light for his eyes, was too much to handle.

The walls painted red, with old thief's blood,

And the bottle of whiskey, the color of mud.

The terrible figure stepped into the light,

The rich owner of land, with nothing but blight,

Stood near eight feet tall,

His his eyes dark as the night in the fall.

He wore butchers clothes,

That don't reflect his profession,

But rather a terrible obsession.

The thief tried to run, begging for his life,

But the man grabbed his hand, and then, a slice.
The black gloved claw fell to the floor.

Blood painted walls, once again and once more.

He screamed out of agony, he screamed out of fear.

The thief's vision blurred, his end had come near.

Now the rest of him sits at the bottom of a well,

Meanwhile his soul, sits rotting in hell.

This brings us to the end, of a story too real,

This is the end, of the bastard who steals.