Trapped

What can it be like
to be trapped on the ground
in one’s own manor
in one’s own blood drowned
those steel claws
that clap down
onto one’s head
and smash through
one’s legs
holding tight till
your dead
this trapper is low life
no other remark
explains what is
in their heads
clearly so dark
so evil
so wretched
a vile unkind sod
who leaves his contraption
believing he’s god
he a nasty ass dirt bag
and if caught in a trap
my god he would cry out
we’d hear so much crap
he’d shout to the heavens
the coward who may leave
traps just haphazardly
yes we all grieve
for anyone really who stumbles and falls
like this poor individual
whose death just appals
we can see from his
manner
the pain he was in
the fright that he took on
how it did begin
to crack and to crumble
the bones and that pain
and that shock
and that disregard
and that disdain
trappers are low life
trappers should be
thrown into prison
and give me the key