Bog Man

Cut from the red turf of Eire,
Shrunken, leathery, yet deeply human.
Life embossed on a parchment of death,
Not alive but no longer a corpse
Fashioned by the bog into a study
Of life punished by obscene violence.

Tortured, killed, and mutilated a dozen ways;
Yet well fed and hale, until the end.
Lying at the boundary of kingdoms.
Some say a ruler,
Who failed his duty and fell to justice
At the hands of his own tribe.

Hammurabi decreed death to the builder
Whose work collapsed and killed
The man who paid for skill
And was crushed instead by empty claims
Of expertise, tacking the builder to
the same fate he erected for others.

A leader leads, going first, not last.
A ruler rules, unwisely, unjustly
If his rules never lead him to suffer
The fate of those wounded by his rules.
The Bog Man has taught us well.
Will the Swamp Men ever listen?

- f'Man Bocera