The yard in fall receives a warning flake.
It takes no ware to clip the lady’s ear.
So soon they will repent at their mistake.
For time of lady’s death is drawing near.
The knife, a surgeon’s gun, will kill and slice
Poor soul of life, renalis and of womb.
The kiss of death shall turn her heart to ice.
Encased in death, at peace, within her tomb.
The morn will thus reveal the deed from night.
A note and scrap from killer’s hand is thought.
‘Twas writ to stir the yard, in chalky white.
The Juwes, the men ‘twill be blamed for nil, not.
A mocking surgeon sings through text of post.
To catch a thief of life, the yard wants most.

 
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