Beneath a yew tree’s shade The sad policeman stands. He deprecates his trade And hides his hangman’s hands. His mind is like a blade Beneath a yew tree’s shade. He sees our wicked hearts And cuts them to the quick, He feels our fits and starts, Each tired and tawdry trick, A Master of the Arts, He sees our wicked hearts. He is a hound of hell, A hammer to the proud. He sniffs his quarry’s smell And pulls them from the crowd. His trade is kiss and tell. He is a hound of hell. He is a holy man…