Sharp Bone Handled Knife

It only takes five minutes

From a smart West London flat

Only takes five minutes

To a thin blade in the back

That’s what the woman told him

Was the gist of what she’d said

He wanted proof she offered truth

And now he’s lying dead

He never knew that Death had stalked him

That she’d been there all the time

When he visited the gypsy

She’d been three steps behind

And as his spirit left his body

He looked down but did not know

Who the strange girl was

With blade in hand

Not twenty feet below

Never knew that out of boredom

And the urge to take a life

That Death herself had aimed the blow

With her sharp bone handled knife

Death is sitting waiting on the outskirts of L.A.

For a train that’s packed with people

Which is heading out this way

You’ll never know she’s coming

When she does she never stays

But she’s here right now

On the main branch line

On the outskirts of L.A.

Death is floating, dreaming

Five miles out from Tiger Bay

A ferry full of passengers

Is heading home today

And as the engine blewThe hull right through

Just one man knelt to pray

In the pouring rain

Of a howling gale

Just out from Tiger Bay

Death is sitting smoking

On the slopes above Pompeii

Waiting on an old volcano

One which rarely likes to play

And the people down below her

Cannot know that it’s today

That the ash will fall

Their lives will stall

And she will have her way

If Soma, with it’s sweet allure

Were ever there to grace the minds of men

You can be sure. Twas cut & baggedAnd sold as pure

I made inquiries, most discreet

Was guided through back streets unto a door

With urgent need I thought of nothing more

Than of this purchase, which I knew I must complete

So I knocked, as I have on many doors

And wondered if I would on many more

As darkness fell I waited in the street

I hung on every sound with baited breath

Twas then I heard the step of sandled feet

No stranger at the door, but only Death

She said –

There’s one at the door

At the gate to salvation

There’ll be room for one more

Til the end of creation

There’s one at the door

At the gate to damnation

There’ll be room for one more

Til the end of creation

There’s one at the door.

 

Chris The Poet Dibnah


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