THE FACTS

(Killhardy speaks about manslaughter)

There’s no poetry here, not a dime of free verse,

not a rhyme, just a heady blur. First (in case you’re fool enough to believe it didn’t occur)

the place was an overhanging plethora of pale sods,

drunk to their roots, hosed down by wine.

The time…? late…? early…? late…? What shall I say? Decrepid dawn.

I’d driven the speed-lanes looser than any dismembered cocker-spaniel.

(I’ve a nice way with words.)

The Horticultural Centre of Western Europe lay before my green twitch of ten fingers,

and the gardening lass bent to one hell of a low rose

with one hell of a low fellow bending his midriff

to her height when (what d’yer think?) in I zoomed

like a Jumbo jet gone car-ified

and bust the two of them up their arses

and straight under my slim wheels

taking a thousand and ninety complaining roses

in speedy carousal with me.

Well, what do you think? The police fined me for an “Unroad-Situation”,

wagged me out o’court for not keeping to the highways.

I break brick now for the greatest speedway of the western world

called MOTORWAY RAVE right over

those DEAD BODIES and plucked cheribands of scattered roses!!!

Well, crime sure has changed since Moses,

and not a bit of poetry here (though a rhyme or two crept in).