Killed Her, I Did, I Did! Poem by Michael Gale

The putrid palor of her long dead hand....
Cold lay bare as waved in the wind like a much repulsive epileptic spelled induced, rubber band.
A revulsion of time....
A chapter of crime.

Whom did jealously ended her ever life filled being? ...
Did naught even one fleeing eye espy to seeing.
Stilled and colden, yet ungolden body rests upon yon mattress of death...
Blood still dripping a puddled small river of the dead, be her unknown name to which doth be Beth.

No more pain, for her to suffer with-wit of breath...
Sadly and alone in peace filled sleep of death.
The moon enshrouded by darkened cloud...
Poor Beth's unheard screams for help-Out loud.

Ignored were her suffering pain wracked wail...
A'gritted were teeth gnashing in moris code, the silent tale.
Neck snapped a'loosend upon her shoulders...
Only a bloody stump t'was left as not to appear as a pea, and not a largest of the largest of boulders.

There t'was no hope of help from even the late arriving calvery...
Yes-there t'was no hope for help-not even for she.
What t'will be but be-Lone in death be she-No flowers were to be put upon her grave...
From her murderer-That cowardly, knavely slave.
Memories of her, would'st depart this neither-world..
Forgotten of heart, yet fast, flungly hurled.