He Was- by: unknown forgotten

Several inches beneath the mud
laid a vile of poison strong enough to kill god
It was grasped in the cold bony dead hand
Of an alchemist who discovered the meaning of life
His son was a bookkeeper at a library downtown
He read all the greatest stories there ever was
But he did not believe what his father was doing was right
So he struck him down cold blooded in the middle of the night
With a golf club he cracked open his old man's skull
Drawing more blood than he knew how to clean up
You think that with all the murder mysteries he had viewed
He would have known how to commit a murder proper and true
He took his fathers notes and hid them in a trunk
Where he buried it in an unknown spot
Some say near where his beloved passed mother does lay
But for his father he dug a hole 10 feet deep by 4 across
And dropped the old dead man standing straight up
The vile of poison still clenched in his fist
His stiff arm extended straight into the air
He lay for 30 dark years untouched
His son the bookkeeper never spoke a word more and never told a soul
He died a gruesome death in a train wreck when he was 64 years old
No tree ever grew where the deceased alchemist rested
Though the dirt turned a disturbing black and omitted a deathly grotesque stench
And this is where I found the carcass of a perfect white messenger dove
Each feather still intact and white as heaven
In it's talons gripped a tiny glass vile
And beneath it's body protruded the empty dead hand of the alchemists that was.