Poetry
by Phil Brown
The Serial Killer
Naturally the neighbours never guessed
that deep beneath his ordinary lawn
lay umpteen stiffs: the total's not yet known.
When they flushed the killer from his nest
he seemed quite chuffed by his immediate renown.
"It's awful but we really never knew,
one neighbour sobbed. "He actually seemed nice."
(seemingly without an earthly vice —
this monster that believed they'd never know
what evil lurked behind that flaccid face.)
Someone who excelled in chopping up
the people whom he had to morning tea,
he seemed so quiet, but murdered mercilessly
and blamed it on his mum. He "couldn't stop"
and claimed his father hit him constantly.
One shrink said it was his tiny dick
which made him such a nasty piece of work.
The media has now gone quite berserk —
the articles, the book and, soon, a flick
and a T-shirt with some neat artwork.
The killer has now married, behind bars,
a woman who believes, he's really good
and, actually, just misunderstood:
someone he'd like to keep in jars
to savour when he's in a bloody mood.
by Phil Brown
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