Thread of Red

He cleaned away the red,
And spat at the reflection,
He only hangs by a thread.

Why so spoiled like bread?
He was poisoned by disaffection,
There is so much more done than said.

Far has time fled,
It has taken away perfection,
He only hangs by a thread.

A judgment he did dread,
Such a wretched confection,
There is so much more done than said.

Oh, how much he bled,
They did not warrant the action,
He only hangs by a thread.

Only to wish he was dead,
Red is now a white complexion,
There is so much more done than said.

He only hangs by a thread.