Die, Killer, Die Poem by Mary Naylor

A red veil was floating around the killer's head,
and his face was a cold, hard, mask.
He entered the execution chamber
and they strapped him to the chair.
They lowered the cap to his bare,
shaved skull. Out in the yard you could hear
the demonstrator's call and cry, Die, Killer, Die There were a few quiet sobs, a few shudders and gasps,
but mostly there was a fireball of rage burning inside,
and a red mist hanging over hard, hard, eyes.
As they stood they clenched their fists, hanging at their sides.
Inside, the switch was pulled - flames shot into the air.
The condemned jerked and writhed...
and word slipped out, the killer had just died. The electric chair malfunctioned and the killer fried?
Well, it was good enough for him, damn his hide!
The memory of myriad meditations, sermons, and hymns and prayers
were suddenly drowned out in the roar... Die, Killer, Die! Why, over them happiness seemed to pour!
The red mist became a filmy red shawl that
floated in the air - it was almost beautiful!
In the satisfaction of the moment they paused to bask;
and yet their faces were not happy...
They were cold, hard, masks.