And he hangs there alone, quiet on the tree,
looking down at the world,unlike them he’s free.
The world unfair, the truth cruel,
the wise depsicable and the fool unreal.
The wise they gather,beneath the guilty tree,
a coward,they call him, guilty on decree.
Gave up on the world, failed in his life,
should have fought and won against the pain and strife.
Now its the fools, who gather beneath the tree,
poor soul, they call him, tortured third degree.
We feel your pain, they treat us thus too,
at least you had the courage, to do what you had to do.
I see the whole thing, from my seat far beyond,
Hate the people, as gossip spreads around.
As they take down the man, I strain to see,
I see a face familiar, a face thats me.
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