Anthracite

A bright moon burned behind dark puffy clouds
The highwayman astride his horse, serious and proud
A white face at the end of his blade will pay the fee
For hanging his partner and love at Tyburn tree
It happened not far from the races at Barnstead Downs
A rich fat gentleman with matching purse and a frown
With duress and much puffing he climbed down from the coach
This overdressed buffoon proud to show a bright pink broach
With wide eyes his love stepped forward to admire the stone
The fat rich bastard drove a dagger in him down to the bone
His love didn’t die but begged him to go as others appeared
So he turned on his word and at his back the fat bastard cheered
These are times of God and slaves, time it is, an eye for an eye
Months he’d been waiting to hear this fat bastards death sigh
And enjoy it he’d would, yes, savouring it like cooked salted meat
As he remembered his love on a rope, choking and jerking his feet
“Take my purse and be gone highwayman!” the fat bastard swore
Softly he whispered “This is no stand and deliver you bastard whore”
The ghost of his love held his hand as he stepped in and stabbed
Tears flowed, relief of revenge as the bastard gurgled and grabbed
Stepping back and wiping his blade, the moon shone highlighting the trophy
The relief overwhelming as he swung onto his horse, pulling his cloak in closely
Turning south to Bletchingley, his tricorne pulled down and shadowing his face
They would never catch Swift Stephen, highwayman, now a man with no place
A bright moon burned behind a cloud, hidden but revealing
And a highwayman astride on a horse, relieved but grieving

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