(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).
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