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He killed his wife at night. 
He had tried once or twice in the daylight 
But she refused to die. 

In darkness the deed was done, 
Not crudely with a hammer-hard gun 
Or strangler's black kid gloves on. 

She just ceased being alive, 
Not there to interfere or connive, 
Linger, leave or arrive. 

It seemed almost as though 
Her death was quite normal and no 
Clue to his part would show. 

So then, with impunity, 
He called up that buttocky beauty 
He had so long longed to see 

All covering gone: the double 
Joggle of warm weighty bubbles 
Was sweet delirious trouble. 


And all night, all night he enjoyed her; 
Such sport in her smooth dimpled water; 
Then daylight came like a warder. 

And he rose and went down to the larder 
Where the mouse-trap again had caught a 
Piece of stale gorgonzola. 

His wife wore her large woollen feet. 
She said that he was late 
And asked what he wanted to eat, 

But said nothing about the murder--- 
And who, after all, could have told her? 
He said that he fancied a kipper.


Submitted by Andrew Mayers

Added: 21 Jul 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 9:41 PM | Viewed: 5172 times

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