Excuses By Terence O’Brien


Bullied as a child, school offered no respite on earth,
grew up a sheepish child afraid of the dark it seemed.
Frequented the seedier side of towns, for what their worth,
yet still clung to a scenario; he believed or dreamed.

His canvas would become bloodied; his raison detre macabre,
luring young men, girls to his feast ever so deadly planned.
Took pleasure in pain, screams of the handcuffed visage,
caught in his web of sick gore he would let them demand.

To the outside world he was a shy type; kept himself clean,
always alone and had no set pattern, that was fear filled.
Rape, torture, taped recordings he’d keep; well I mean!
Perversions, pride in pain and he got off on it and killed.

A defence lawyer was needed; he was a gory core celebre,
the pictures of living beings hanging, as if his muses.
Life without parole as there’ s no electric chair, just a cell,
just go through justices motions; of course make excuses!

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