he's a sweet boy -
so polite,
so nice,
so willing to help out

so I haven't an idea
what all this fuss is all about;

all these cops and news reporters,
all these passers-by and gawkers

all the creepy accusations
from these fabulists and squawkers;

so he keeps some lonely hours
so his chipper's painted red
so the smells are kind of funny
from that lovely flower bed;

so the noises are unpleasant
as they echo from his cellar
(rather like the screams of women)
-still, he's such a pleasant fella,

always hanging 'round my doorstep
always there to lend a hand
always peeking through my window -
so concerned,
that sweet young man!

and if I were ten years younger
he would surely turn my head;
such a shame about his family-
I heard they wound up dead -

how unfortunate
how tragic -
that poor boy has been through heck!

and he tells me all about it
as his hands enclose my neck,

and what lovely hands they are-
what a firm and manly grasp
what a tender look he gives me
as he steals my final gasp.

01/31/2006

Author's Note: *

Posted on 02/25/2007
Copyright © 2025 Maria Francesca