the weekly


Snow is falling, roads are icy,
Skies are grey. The outlook’s bleak.
Relations with my spouse are dicey:
We’ll be in the house all week.
We had a problem with the mains.
That’s when I bashed in his brains.

You can almost hear fog falling,
Shutting off each vista, view.
I think my other half’s appalling –
I could murder her. Could you?
TV broken. Wife is sick:
I filled her up with arsenic.

Hail the size of gallstones dropping,
Pipes are frozen, boiler’s bust:
Can’t go dancing, can’t go shopping,
We fill up with pure disgust.
The words we spoke were frozen breath.
Then we bludgeoned us to death.

Here we lie interred together
In the cemetery yard;
It wasn’t us, it was the weather
Made us mark each other’s card.
Good job there was no hurricane:
It might have driven us insane.

Read a Telegraph article here

Click here to buy Bill’s poetry collection, Ringers



A bizarre story from Sidmouth, Devon attributed a rise in domestic violence to poor weather.

23 October 2012


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