One Wednesday in August

A miserable old prick in a house made of sticks,
and the lady who smoked were a bore;
for both of them sat in the idleest of chat,
on a corner, in the cold, by a door.
One of them coughed, and the other one smiled,
but neither was getting along;
Not a thing to be said, not an inch or a mile,
not a story, a rumour, or song.
It wasn't until the man had been killed,
that the lady who smoked seemed to care;
for his body it lay in the shallowst grave,
on a corner, in the grass, by the stairs.
The nieghbour's complaints and the copper restraints,
and her heels were the worst of it all;
While the body of a man and her fingerprints can,
confirm she was partly at fault.

One Wednesday in July ₢2017 C.SeanMcGee