The girl is straddled on the board, the straps are
fastened tight,
She sees him take position and she prays she's doing right.
She asks the Lord to help his aim, control and guide his arm,
For if he makes a slip it's she, not he, who comes to harm.
She sees the keenness of the blade, the shiny killer knife,
And wonders how this came to be, this crossroads in her life;
The future could be murdered with one slash of gleaming blade,
She sobs with hurt and memories of bad decisions made.
The Thrower picks his target and he grips the fateful steel,
His head is calm, his heart is ice, no passion does he feel,
Tries not to think of failure or the public indignation,
Someone has to undertake this grisly occupation.
The dagger flies, his aim is true, she staggers from the ring,
Still dizzy from the spinning, glad she never felt a thing;
She laughs relief and cries remorse, she stops to catch her breath
Remembers what the Bible said: "the wage of sin is death."
The Thrower stands alone, surveys the room and breathes a sigh,
Someone has to live their life and someone has to die,
He doesn't want to think about it, nor to be perplexed,
He strides out of the ring, opens the door and murmurs "Next."
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