Jose Manuel Miguel Gonzales, in a few short weeks it will be spring. The snows of winter will flow away, the ice will vanish, the air will become soft and balmy. The annual miracle of the years will awaken and come to pass. But you will not be there.The rivulet will run its soaring course to the sea. The timid desert flowers will put forth their tender shoots. The glorious valleys in this imperial domain will blossom as the rose. Still you will not be there.From every treetop, some wildwood songster will carol his mating song. Butterflies will sport in the sunshine. The gentle breeze will tease the tassels of the wild grasses and all nature will be glad.But you will not be there to enjoy it. Because I command the sheriff of the county to lead you away to some remote spot, swing you by the neck from a knotting bough of some sturdy oak and let you hang until dead. And then Jose Manuel Miguel Gonzales, I further command that such officer retire quickly from your dangling corpse, that vultures may descend from the heavens upon your filthy body until nothing is left but the bare, bleached bones of a cold-blooded, blood-thirsty, throat-cutting, murdering S.O.B.
Take the following case:
My own personal feelings on the death penalty are mixed. The cop in me want to see murders hung high as an example to others and vindication. However, the less emotional economist says that incarceration for a life is a no brainer.