The Hanging

A carnival of torment, laughter and jeers,
Is the only thing the young man hears.
His eyes are distant,
Shining afar,
Away from the cruel burn of tar.
They lead him up the steps,
His shoulders loose,
His head held high as they tighten the noose.
The steps are removed,
The man starts to choke,
But only laughter this seems to evoke.
His body sways in the breeze,
And for once the crowd,
Seems little at ease.
But they quickly forget all remorse and dread,
As a little boy shouts,
'The fiend is dead!'
They laugh and shout till the setting of the sun,
Then the crowd mutters,
Forgetting why they've come.
We must never forget this injustice done to him,
This young man was killed,
For the colour of his skin.