By T.L. Coston
It’s getting dark. Is that a distant rumble?
I’m getting goose-bumps from the prospect of thunder.
Did the temperature drop? It suddenly got cold.
For what time I have left, it’s hard to be bold
The crime I committed, and yes, it was heinous
And for that, I’m about to be hanged.
But to prosecute my execution, in these conditions,
Is more than I can take.
Oh, I don’t deserve pity, that can’t be denied.
But to dance at the gallows to a thunder’s clap,
While lightning flashes my last gasp;
Now that’s irony at its best.
Yes, she was my mistress and with child.
But to leave my wife, I couldn’t abide.
So, instead of leading a double life,
I decided to commit the most odious of crimes.
I enticed my moll with promises of love;
An elopement to some foreign land.
But to stage this getaway, we needed a place to stay.
Somewhere, no one would pry
The plan was simple enough:
I needed a cottage with a tidal rush.
To commit this deed might entail screams;
Shingle Beach would do just fine
So blind was her love that she didn’t see the club.
The blunt end of an axe I did swing.
With a thud she splayed on the rug.
So vicious, her hands twitched in a pool of blood
Realization had come to pass, I have a difficult task:
The dismemberment and disposal of my spinster lass.
As you could tell by the mess, I underestimated the rest.
A plan, as everyone knows, I half-assed.
I built a big fire and stoked the flames,
To begin the ghoulish work ahead of me.
I sawed off her head and threw it on a bed
Of glowing cinders that popped and hissed.
It was then, I witnessed the din, of a Gorgon horror.
Writhing hair waved in serpentine flames biting venomous strikes.
I recoiled from this attack, and while stepping back,
Her dead eyes opened with a Medusa stare.
And with that, a thunderous clap,
Coupled with lightning that shook the whole cabin.
I ran with a scream into the pouring night;
Not to return until daylight.
That’s it. So, now I go to the gallows pole
For the whole world knows my sins,
And soon I will pay a repentance price
Dancing in Hell to thunder and lightning.
P.S.
This poem is based on the 1924 murder of Emily Bilbie Kaye at the Crumbles in the U.K.