The Warder Of Cruel Delight Poem by David Lewis Paget

He'd spent his life as a Turnkey
At His Majesty's Prison, Whailes,
The Warder, Walter McMurtrey
Of the grim and unwholesome tales,
His brow was grim and forbidding
And his fist was broken and scarred,
He took delight in the whipping
Of the prisoners, out in the yard.

But Gordon Pole was a special case
For the Warder's cruel delight,
He'd take him out of his cell in chains
And scourge him, every night,
‘You think you're going to get out of here,
Get back to your former life,
I think you're spending your life in here,
While I go sleep with your wife! '

But Gordon bit on his tongue, until
His mouth was filled with blood,
He wouldn't answer him back, he'd rather
Take it, while he stood,
His wife had lied in an open court
The law just took its course,
He asked her why she had lied, she said:
‘It's like a quick divorce! '

His thoughts were black as he brooded
Made a note of every stroke,
The time would come, he concluded
That he'd walk, with other folk,
But deep within him a beast had stirred
That never would be allayed,
Would fill his mouth and his eyes and ears
‘Til the debt in full was paid.

It raved in the darkness round his cell
Kept him awake for hours,
Would haunt his sleep and exhaust him ‘til
He went to the morning showers,
The scars were livid across his back,
And prisoners shrank in fear:
‘Just why is McMurtrey after you? '
They'd call, so he could hear.

His wife called once with the mortgage deed,
‘You're going to have to sign!
Walter says that you'll be in here
Until the end of time.
We're getting married, I thought you knew,
He's more than good to me! '
‘You could have had him and let me go, '
Said Gordon, ‘Let me be! '

The beast arose in the midnight cell
And wriggled out through the bars,
While Gordon lay in a trance-like state,
Dreaming about the stars,
It made its way to the woman's home
And it slid right under the door,
Rose up the stairs to the bedroom where
It gave out a mighty roar!

The neighbours said there were screams that night
Enough to curdle your blood,
The sounds of thrashing and weeping rent
Their way through the neighbourhood,
McMurtrey died from a thousand cuts,
His flesh was torn from the bone,
His head perched up on a lampshade, with
One hand still gripping the phone.

And high from the bedroom ceiling where
The beam ran over the bed,
A figure that had been screaming, was
Not screaming now, but dead!
While on the pillow the Holy Book
Was open, and left no doubt,
For she was hung from a butcher's hook
Wedged deep in her perjured mouth.

The police came down and they searched his cell,
They checked the lock on the door,
They said they didn't know how it was
Despite the blood on his floor,
The beast hid up in the ceiling space
Was blown away by the fan,
And Gordon smiled in his sleep that night,
The sleep of an innocent man.

25 February 2013