You call me murderer just coz I killed
That farmer, but it’s innocent I pleads.
He called my cannabis a pile of weeds.
Don’t weeds grow best in a neglected field?
Well ‘e was just a nuisance so I drilled
‘im full of ‘oles like I was plantin’ seeds
And still ‘e gripped me throat like one that needs
Must fight his fill. So I say ‘e’s been filled.

And it’s not like I am the only one.
The judge there drives ‘is flash car when ‘e’s stoned.
It aint black powder in the copper’s gun.
Is it illegal only when it’s growned?

But us men of the world know ‘ow to deal:
Manslaughter 2, suspended on appeal?

.

Usually a sonnet is the amber in which poets study the lovely butterfly of intellectualised feeling. Here I have used it to trap a dirty cockroach. The speaker is the remnant of a human being, an apt spokesman for  a corrupt and dehumanised lifestyle – but still a man in spite of that.

Current edit:

26 August 2015

25 April 2016