October 4, 2004

• It is time for my most infamous creation to show off their poems. They Never Forgive, they Never Forget, they Never Apologize, and they Never Regret. And they don’t DO “nice”. It is of course your friends and mine.

  
  

  The Three-Headed Sarahs’

  
  

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  The Death Of Margaret O’Malley
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  She jumped into the water
  

  
  

  “And why not?” she thought.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Why not drown meself
  

  
  

  And do an end to all the pain?”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Why not drown meself?”
  

  
  

  She did the holy cross.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  She repeated this again to herself
  

  
  

  As she jumped into the river.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  But she did not drown.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  The crocodile saw to that.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Three Headed Sarahs’
  

  
  

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  Their next poem is their entry to Little Egypt’s poetical challange.

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  At my local.
  

  
  

  ___________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “See the heart on the bar-floor, and the brains beside it? See them my friend? They were mine.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I looked at the man in the pub and groaned, why did I have to attract all of the mad people in this bloody city?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “See the soul hung up there with the shorts-bottles, that was mine too my friend, that was mine.” The man supped his beer.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “They were mine, the arms of the bar-stools, mine, the eyes on the dimple mugs, mine. Funny that, I did not expect death to be like this”.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I looked at the couple at the next table and shugged my shoulders, they smiled back.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I looked at the mad-man. “Can I get your round?” I asked him, he shook his head, but the wife of the couple smiled. “That’s jolly decent of you, a gin & tonic and a pint of Fosters”.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Wondering if I was dreaming, I bought three drinks, and noticed that my mad friend had gone. “That’s a relief!” I said to the husband. “Pardon?” he asked.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “That loonie, glad he’s gone!” “Who is gone?” asked the wife. “The man at my table” I smiled.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “But” cried the woman, “You have been by yourself all night!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Leaving the pub later, I tripped over a man’s severed head. 
  

  
  

  —

  
  

  Three-Headed Sarahs’

  
  

   

  
  

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  Song in the style of Noel Coward.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Don’t give a man a blow-job when he’s driving,
  

  
  

  He might crash into the back of a truck;
  

  
  

  And it’ll be a shame to lose your life dear,
  

  
  

  Just because of a suck.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Don’t give a man a blow-job when he’s driving,
  

  
  

  He might crash going around the bend;
  

  
  

  I did that to my dear husband
  

  
  

  And now I’m in heaven my friend.”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  The ghost of Ada Warwick.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  (as told to the Three-Headed Sarahs’

  
  

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  • 4:00 pm
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