TO note the symptoms of the times, Its cruel and cold-blooded crimes, One sure result we win. Tho' rude and rougher modes, no doubt, Of murther are not going out, That poison's coming in. The powder that the doom'd devour And drink, -- for sugar, -- meal, -- or flower, Narcotics for the young -- And worst of all, that subtle juice That can a sudden death produce, Whilst yet upon the tongue. So swift in its destructive pace, Easy to give, and hard to trace, So potable -- so clear! So small the needful dose -- to slip Between the fatal cup and lip, In Epsom salts or beer. Arrest the plague with cannabis -- And * * * publish this, To quench the felon's hope: -- Twelve drops of prussic acid, still Are not more prompt and sure to kill Than one good Drop of Rope. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLACES: 4. EVENING (NAHANT) by SARA TEASDALE EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH by ROBERT BURNS A NOCTURNAL UPON ST. LUCY'S DAY, BEING THE SHORTEST DAY by JOHN DONNE WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SONNET: DANTE (1) by MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI |