A poem by me...Crit4Crit as time allows.

?Lucky Number Six.?
Lucky number six, repeated three times,
Twisted around, and turned upside down;
Nine hundred and ninety nine wasted lives.
But one remained standing amid all the flames,
His fiddle was playing a song with no name.
The verse and the chorus rang somber and true,
Of Caesars, and Khans, and the evil men do.
For never a note has been known to tell lies,
And never the wind to turn deaf ear to cries.
But a man with his pride stands wicked and tall,
As he watches fellow man be persecuted and fall.
Until the hour man finds himself at the door,
Humbled and trembling, ?Mercy!? he does implore.
No different was he than the murderer's best,
Yet forgiveness he begs from the victims he?s blessed.
For the wicked man?s sorrow is the righteous man?s pain;
May the blood of tomorrow wash away with the rain.