The woman lay dead on the floor. Who cares? She was merely a whore, That's tough; I'm afraid; To ply the rough trade Brings risks, which she chose to ignore... But that tale's too racy; instead Here's Charlie Black, dead on his bed, A look of surprise Still shines in his eyes, With a hatchet blade stuck in his head. Loo-tenant Columbo: "Charles Black? A second-rate newspaper hack. Who died in a snooze, After far too much booze. The clue is an old dirty mac." Says Poirot: "It's puzzled I am. Reminds me of once down in Ham- burg, where, for a lark, In the dark, in the park... Like me, you must cherchez la femme." And next arrive Starsky and Hutch, With squeal of tyres, riding the clutch. They're hunting Black's car, Which ain't very far, It's here, close enough for to touch. Now Quincy comes, looking for clues. Ignoring the hatchet, he'll choose An adamant claim, (For such is his game,) "'Twas chicken pox, heightened by booze. The whole sorry crew are perplexed, And Husky and Starch wholly vexed: They've not had a chase, Had to hang round this place... (Ignore please, line 2, I'm dyslexed.) An entrance is made, to impress, By young widow Black, in a dress, With cleavage so low You can near see her toe Down the cleft, and she purrs: "I confess." That's good, or we'd ne'er end this tale, For surely our brave sleuths would fail A jigsaw to do, With pieces just two, They've none got the brain of a snail. So here it is, right from the start: Our Charlie, had been to a part- y, drunk on rough cid- er, got a cab ride, Then felt bad, from down near his heart. The consequence of his booze feat: A yawn, technicolored, and Pete, The cabbie, irate, Looked back, viewed the spate Of vomit all over the seat. He throws Charlie out, on his own, In darkness, and so, with a groan, Off Charlie now plods, Away, hoping God's A-watching, to show him a phone. He finds one, and boy is he mighty Relieved, and phones wife Aphrodite, (She's lovely, the lucky young man,) Who, quick as she can, Throws raincoat o'er baby doll nightie. She jumps into car, drives to deep Dark country, to pick up the creep. He's found, jumps inside, So grateful to ride, And promptly falls soundly asleep. Soon Aphro pulls into the verge; Her bladder is making an urg- ent plea for relief. She ducks round a sheaf Of wheat, in short time to emerge. Aroused by the shutting door's clunk, Our Charlie consideres: "I thunk I must have been tired, And stopped." Now inspired, He starts to drive home to his bunk. And Aphro sees tail-lights receding Round bend, yells, but hubby's not heeding. She walks for an hour, Cold, angry, and showered With mud, and her feet sore and bleeding. She's home, marches straight to the shed, Gets wood axe, finds husband in bed, and in her great pique Employs her physique To bury the axe in his head. * * * A moral you want, I suppose. For once, folks, I'll tell it in prose: A woman can stand A sore head or hand, But don't give her pain in her toes...
The hatchet job was inspired by the delightful song "The Shape Of Things" by Blossom Dearie, which goes in part:
Triangular is the piece of pie I eat to ease my sorrow, Triangular the hatchet blade I plan to hide tomorrow, Triangular the relationship that now has ceased to be.... and later... Rectangular is the wooden box, Where lies my love 'neath the grazing flocks, They say he died of the chicken pox, In part I must agree: One chick too many had he.
The manufacture of crisps, (that's potato chips to you Merkins,) is done by slicing potatoes extremely thinly, frying them then removing the potato.
This poem was written by taking the first verse, processing it considerably, and then should have culminated in its discard, but I, sentimental old duffer that I am, hadn't the heart to ditch it.
Saturday, July 19, 2003