Saturday, 9 January 2010


My friend lost sight of the finer points of life
And had no recourse but to excuse himself
From his urban retreat and his personal grief,
And the strain of his marriage’s bad health.

It started, I heard, with no more than words,
But developed more quickly than usual,
Until everything known had abandoned the hosts,
And the last engine tank had been fuelled.

Some time after this there wasn’t much left
Of the station he shared with his martyr;
They took one last breath, and after their rest,
Began to tare each other’s heart out.

She got in there first, and during her worst,
He was feeling her nails hammer home,
But just as his world was beginning to burst
He connected and duly caused harm.

He wasn’t that way, and to this very day,
I’ll defend him against fools of correction,
But how could he be saved from an incongruous grave
In the light of his apparent last action.

He must have blacked out with not even a thought
Of the log fire burning behind them,
For the guard on the hearth, had fallen apart,
And the next day no inspection could find them.

In the ash that was left of the house that was wrecked
Nothing special remained to be labelled,
And so we all were bereft by the untimely deaths,
And sat down to recount round a table.

And no verdict was nigh, so the families’ decided
That accidents are all part of experience,
But I will never cry for my friend and his wife,
And their shared love of fire insurance.

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