Bubble And Squeak
Evening came and words were said
about everything and nothing,
about birthdays and a meal,
about bubble and squeak.
Words were said that had been said before,
words that cut and cut and cut,
words that leave wounds none can see,
words that became a sentence.
The words came to a full stop,
and the woman took up a knife
and she stabbed and stabbed the man,
and she stabbed him once again.
When they took her she spoke plainly,
she said, ‘with any luck you’ll be too late,’
she said, ‘I should have stabbed him a bit more,’
she said, ‘If I haven’t done it properly, I’ll be really annoyed.’
‘Rot in hell,’ she said.
Yes, rot in hell.
Writing Me Up 