Death by a Tram

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.