The Artifact Thief Poem by John F. McCullagh

You would think him a villain; you would call him a thief
But he would just shrug and say "We all have to eat."
On the Petersburg siege lines, he'd just made a score;
A rusted old bayonet used in our Civil War.

There are scores of collectors who would pay a good price.
They wouldn't ask questions, they wouldn't think twice.
He cared nothing for the History of the Blue and the Grey.
Only for the money the collector would pay.

The Sun was descending when he left from the Park
He bought some Tequila, to drink in the dark.
in a third rate motel that didn't leave the lights on.
By three the next morning the Tequila was gone.

The thief had bad dreams, in his booze induced sleep.
of a specter in gray at his bed near his feet: .
The ghost of a drummer from that long ago war.
The thief shook with fear at the visage he saw.

The blade he had stolen was now in the Ghost's hands.
The ghost grimly eyed him with the eyes of one dammed.
The blade shattered his ribs and ripped him apart.
As darkness descended it tore open his heart..

The medical examiner was called the next day.
A horrified maid found the body, they say.
His room had been locked. He'd bled out on the ground
The hall cameras showed nothing; no weapon was found