Void of eyes, teeth and gums,
no arms, legs, or an ounce of lungs,
the head laughed it's sinister song,
nobody knows just why or how long.
Only the head knows what went wrong,
save for a lonely, angered few
that were viciously dispatched
when the beheading was through.
It matters not to the severed head why
his life and body had to die.
All that matters is what is now
and the mere fact that the head is not proud
to be what we feel, in whole or in part,
a victim of what we see as art.
Despite their absence,
and futility of it all,
he still feels his severed limbs.
Arms cast of iron, strong and long,
he knows they're still in search of him.
In his mind, he sees his arms reaching out,
to grasp the necks of those near and about,
choking, and with one big shout,
he squeezes their viscous eyeballs out.
He sits in waiting and plots his sins
and charts a blueprint of the world's demise.
In the gaping hole of his mind's bright eye,
he knows (despite the predicament he's in,)
it's the world or him in spite of it's size.
So in the end the world must die.
"It's only a matter of time," he says,
"I can feel you now," he says to his hands.
"Now tell my legs to find my chest,
and we'll all seek vengeance according to my plan."
So in his mind he writes his tales
of wickedness and the walking dead
and spins a web to leave as trails
for his appendages to find him -- the head.