Wednesday, 26 March 2014

On Watching a Re-run of Taggart, a poem by Jane Seabourne

…no, no, no: the killer was the dark-haired man,
the one with shifty eyes and massive hands,
who came back from the oil-rigs where he worked
and found out that his wife was knocking off
the hypnotherapist we first saw in Part One –
the one who kept a parrot in his lounge,
and somehow knew the drummer with the limp.

And it was him – the one with shifty eyes –
and not the parrot-loving hypnotherapist –
who killed the drummer in the nightclub’s loo
because the woman from the butcher’s shop
had given his description to Blythe Duff
(a very young PC when this was made)
and the po-lis made a photo-fit which
the drummer knew would give the game away
because she must have seen him – not Blythe Duff,
the gormless woman from the butcher’s shop
– when she went round to the haggis-boiler’s house –
the one she met at work and took a fancy to.

We saw him in the opening scene, sawing up
the missing teacher in a bath
before distributing the body parts round Glasgow.

And it was she – the missing teacher not
the love-struck woman from the butcher’s shop –
who sold the drugs that killed the daughter of
the dark-haired, shifty, oil-rig man, whose wife
was knocking off the hypnotherapist
we first saw in Part One.

I might have skipped a bit,
but I think that’s about the gist of it,
now, whose turn is it to put the kettle on…


Flash 500 Humour Verse Winning Poem Fourth Quarter 2013
For information on Flash 500 competitions, visit the Flash 500 website: www.flash500.com 

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