Death at The Orange Tree
Late inside The Orange Tree,
a burly builder on his knees.
Well earned pint now cast asunder,
he sought respect - his only blunder.
-
It started as a small debate,
but callow scum must conflagrate,
so though a man of sixty-five,
he took the foul-mouthed youth outside.
-
Beneath the bandit now he laid,
“I never saw he had a blade.”
In his chest a tiny puncture,
“It’s ok, I’ll be alright guv’nor.”
-
Fading fast his pulse grew weak
with glazing eyes and greying cheek -
The knife had struck him in the heart,
in few short breaths he breathed his last.
-
In my face his distraught friends
scream, “Where’s the Fucking ambulance.”
“Why could you not save his life?”
“I’m just a cop, not Jesus Christ.”
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