His soul not six feet left his body
stole his boots and ‘bines
Soon swift naked
no time to grieve
the sound in my heart
sick to my throat
I swallow hard and stumble deathward.
Absurd I turn
for treading as I fall
on severed limb from torso freshly torn,
I glanced in his vacant gaze
“Sorry mate” it seemed the English way
to apologise for ruining his day.
Copyright D. Archer October 2011