a scream rents the night but nobody hears;
three hard-men-local-boys laugh, feel fine.
Flesh mouths gape - howl wicked design -
red pools the blackness swollen by tears;
keen the dark-metal of razor's shine.
Leave the bitch bleed, they smoke and recline,
relive the conquest, boastful with leers;
three hard-men-local-boys laugh, feel fine.
Riven by scars, she survives in decline;
ravaged by booze, drowning her fears;
keen the dark-metal of razor's shine.
Craving amnesia through cheap pavement wine,
pleas for loose change ring on deaf ears;
three hard-men-local-boys laugh, feel fine.
Lifelong nightmare, that arked steel line,
excises her children, cuts down the years.
Keen the dark-metal of razor's shine,
three hard-men-local-boys laugh, feel fine.
For Carol Douglas