RICHARD TOPCLIFFE,
TORTURER TO THE QUEEN

Death's coming must not be too quick.
Life must seep slowly from each crack
Within the tortured's porous soul;
It must ooze like oil through a sack.
Anguish makes death a dirty trick.

The flame must linger on the wick
Till it shows life is such a black,
Remorselessly unfathomed hole
Men plead for death upon the rack
More desperately than clocks tick.

What makes of torture a high art
Is to prolong it as skilled lovers
Prolong the pleasures they impart
In the deep warmth beneath the covers.

—Lawrence Minet

All rights to this poem belong to its author.

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