The drinks were lifted up in toast,
while lowered eyes met not.
One voice did bellow out his boast,
while each in private thought:
One thought it shame, one thought it crime,
some thought he will get caught.
One feared the noose, one feared the time,
all feared themselves next shot.
Yet all did drink as he lay dead
—lay dying on the floor—
they drank the toast as they were led,
imbibed what he would pour.
Red wine, red blood, and faces pale,
the blackheart loosed a roar:
"You're all false friends!" came madman's wail.
One saw what was in store.
And cold he felt, his knees trembled:
they all would die tonight.
Their host this meeting assembled,
to loose on them his spite.
Bullets are quick, some poisons slow,
and both quite hard to fight.
So one by one they all fell low
to the madman's delight.
Yet he had drunk with them his poisoned blend—
with just that sip, his life did also end.
Tale Told 