Michael Ross' execution is set for two a.m. on Friday morning. I propose a poem, to be read in the good houses of the State of Connecticut on Thursday evening.
'Twas the night before killing, when all through the state
all souls bent on vengeance thought "wow, this is great."
The needles were placed by the gurney with care,
in hopes that the killer, Ross, soon would be there.
The warden was nestled all snug in his bed,
with visions of dead men dancing gayly in his head.
The families of victims they sat up through the night,
with fond hopes this killing would make all seem right.
When out at the prison there arose such a clatter,
Ross sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
No vision of the world outside could he see,
But he knew in his heart that there must be TV.
The moon oe'r the leaves of new seasons bloom,
Showing souls packed in closely, not leaving much room.
Those opposed to the killing held hands and they prayed
For an order from the heavens that this killing be stayed.
Then a little old driver, of a black limousine,
careened up the road and arrived at the scene.
More rapid than eagles a door opened wide,
Disgorging the governor, a writ held astride.
"Now Ross! Now Webb!
Now, Sedrick and Breton!
Oh, Johnson and Rizzo,
Now who'm I forgetten?
All eight of you monsters
Now curled up in fright,
I've come now to party,
We kill one tonight."
Some people recoiled at the sentiment expressed,
But those bent on killing felt much was suppressed.
"Strap him down tightly and then poke his vein,
It matters not one bit if he feels any pain."
So they worshiped the poisons selected with care,
And to make it all public a reporter was there.
Ross strapped to the table, the needles -- three applied,
As Ross was sedated, his eyes opened wide.
It was over too fast and it happened so quick.
Mike gasped, and he shuttered, showing signs he was sick.
As his body was covered with a shroud late that night,
Not one thing had change; nothing was made right.
Ross dead, and gone with him the reasons for hate,
And new killers annointed now employed by the state.
Then I heard a sad voice from the heavens exclaim,
"Poor Connecticut, you've slaughtered, have you no shame?"