A lonesome figure roams the streets,
scorching sand under his feet,
twisted buildings, dark decay,
rusted metal burns away.

Under the amber setting sun,
silently wanders the one,
burning tires, bodies strewn,
evidence of that afternoon,
when this man rode into town,
and word of fortune spread around,
a lottery he announced that day,
for all the townsfolk soon to play.

Tickets grabbed with greedy hands,
none aware of the stranger’s plans,
a lesson that would soon be taught,
as stubs were pulled out from the lot.

Then suddenly the tension grew,
for behind the townsfolk came the crew,
of the man that came that morn,
and from the rostrum he did warn,
that those who did not wish to play,
simply had to walk away,
but from the crowd a greedy shout,
that he should count none of them out,
and the lonesome figure gave a grin,
and said “let the lottery begin.”

“Lot One-Hundred sixty two,
how fortunate it is for you,
that instead of burning on a cross,
on the tires you’ll be tossed.”
Then a man the crew did take,
and on the burning tires stake,
in agony the man did scream,
and with a mighty wolfish gleam,
the lonesome figure drew a lot,
and another on the tires wrought.

The townsfolk in their haste to flee,
were blocked by the man’s company,
who forced them all into the square,
to greet the sight awaited there,
for crosses lined around the street,
for the town’s demise to meet,
and the people cried out, terrified,
but the Figure only sighed.

“You all begged to play my game,
yet not a one did ask my name?
I am The Punisher, a tool,
to eradicate the selfish fools,
whose plight for greed is so immense,
that their lives are no expense,
so to you all I do applaud,
for giving me an easy job.”

And with those final words he turned,
and as the people slowly burned,
a smirk alighted on his face,
and he set off towards the next place,
that would accept him with no name,
and want to play his little game.