The girl did not hear it, the lonely girl,
Wrapped in the winter in a Kashmiri shawl.
Biddy nostrils in white fog smelled a musk
Of a strange, burly man who softly asked,
Come to the woods, girl, there we laugh
Soaked in the moon, to the sounds of harp
Dizzy we dance to the frisks of life.
A bolo dance, under the spell of a knife.
Splaying your boa skirt, swaying you in sleep
Over the stones, atop a stone of the deep
Piercing your hollow in a gurge of blood.
Merry men stray where in merry men’s flood
Floating in a smell of the crude things done.
The scent of an icky glue in the beret sun
Came to her nostrils and stirred her up,
Deaf to a cranky Borg in cold stirrups.
It screamed, “Bloody hell!” Screeched for a halt.
A witness told the TV, “It’s the girl’s fault.”
Hit by a tram, torn, quietly she bled.
Lying in a morgue, silly, dreamless and dead.