Framed a certain way, the doorpost is the key,
Blamed a certain way, the blood is the key,
Damaged by the destiny of the destroyer’s spree.
Thinking like a victim, freedom is out of reach,
Pondering like a prey, escape is out of reach,
Vivisection the best, purification with bleach.
Troubadours taut with ten intentions,
Predilections possessed by ten intentions,
Serfdom surfeited by sinister suspensions.
Liberation comes, Passover with red décor,
Passover comes, liberation with red décor.
Read after morning, tearing up no more.
r. ward 