Genuine Justice Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I can attest to his sound mind.
He is accused of mercikilling
his aging parents in their home.
They begged and pleaded with their son
and purchased ammunition.
As well, they had assembled knives and guns
on polished mahogany tables,
all neatly stacked, prepared to use.
He'd made short work of it,
a couple muffled sreams,
there was no trouble and no going back.
The local cops had talked to him
but briefly at the Greyhound Station,
the driver argued that those cases were too heavy.

Now, my own tests have followed our talk.
So, was he sane to stand his trial, the judge had asked,
there was no question with my findings yet I knew
that I was handing out the penalty of death.

And so it went. The law had set the execution
for late on Sunday, just before the sun goes down.
No next of kin meant that the judge went to his chambers
and spent the night just counting money of the dead.

And so, at last the judge stood up and placed his hand
upon the shoulder, yes the one without the chip.
A lengthy patting was in order for those millions,
he felt so good when genuine justice had been served.