The Sad Policeman

Beneath a yew tree’s shade
The sad policeman stands.
He deprecates his trade
And hides his hangman’s hands.
His mind is like a blade
Beneath a yew tree’s shade.

He sees our wicked hearts
And cuts them to the quick,
He feels our fits and starts,
Each tired and tawdry trick,
A Master of the Arts,
He sees our wicked hearts.

He is a hound of hell,
A hammer to the proud.
He sniffs his quarry’s smell
And pulls them from the crowd.
His trade is kiss and tell.
He is a hound of hell.

He is a holy man
Of proven hardihood,
For what we would he can,
And what he can is good.
The shit has hit the fan.
We need this holy man.

He brings us back the news,
The weather wearing worse.
He walks in dead men’s shoes
To chart each new reverse.
There’s nothing left to lose.
He brings us back the news.

Where can we put our trust?
The graves are overgrown,
The wisdom of the dust,
The certainties of bone,
Lost legions of the just.
Where can we put our trust?