Down the carved stairs,
With dark thick in the air,
And an unkown waft,
Smelled of death and despair.

For the men who had wronged,
They would soon meet their doom,
At the end of the stairs,
Waited more than a room.

Its skin of dried leather,
Its mouth a toothless hole.
Its lips of scabbed tears,
From the last spoiled soul.

Its legs mighty pilars,
Its feet of pounding drums,
That pin you to the floor,
Sliding you into its gums.

Pushed into its throat,
By its strong wrinkled tounge,
As its muscles contract,
Your song has been sung.

As you fall to the stomach,
Acid searing your skin,
One begans to acknowledge,
The trouble ones in.

The sticky black walls,
Wrap you up in a bind,
The white hot grip of death,
Leave you dumb deaf and blind.

Every moment you live,
Is a moment you cry,
For the things you have done,
To finally let you die.