Don't fault me for the content of this poem. It basically wrote itself after I read Matthew 27 one day. Anyway, I thought it was appropriate for Halloween, so here you go:
Quarter mile south of the churchyard, there you'll find the Field of Blood
Hidden in a mess of oak trees, mosses, and black mud
Come on and bring your bodies, whether Hell or Heaven bound
And for thirty silver dollars, you can leave 'e, in the ground
The old drunk known as Crazy Joe, the salesman from St. Paul
That sad young man who hanged himself near Carson's Mill last fall
Have all found hospitality beneath that grassy floor
It's peaceful, inexpensive, and there's plenty room for more
A bed for slaves and orphans, childless widows, friendless men
For those who left behind no home, no money, and no kin
For all the nameless wand'rers found by riverbanks or trails
For Chinamen and Irish who drop lifeless by the rails
All unknown casualties of war, of fire, drought, and flood
Are welcome in the lonely ground we call the Field of Blood
