Sonnet: A Psychopath's Whispered Sweet Nothings
by John Kendall Hawkins
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Spent the day sledging in the crease. I know
it's not cricket, but crikey, I like it --
seeing that look on the face of a foe,
psst, your wife last night slept with a fuckwit,
him looking up, one minute thinking pace,
next an awed dinosaur in the headlights
of an oncoming comet, the disgrace
ahead, suspicion, the marital fights.
In response, he goes Body Line, of course,
returns the comet, as it were, that's sport;
afterward we're mates, shout beers, no remorse,
my hand on his wife's leg almost at port.
If you chinabullcrash another's crease,
you own the damaged goods, and his wife's knees.
