Trumpter Rory Foxton, MBE,
pulls on his mottled ugg-boots with a grunt,
he didn't let them dry from last night, see,
the stitching's rotted right through at the front.
He takes the short cut clear across the park,
the ground is worn through from habitual tread.
It's 3am, but even in the dark
he's memorised, each time, the way ahead.
He plays beneath the window of the man
for whom his wife of twenty years left him.
The man sleeps through, his new wife lays a plan
to tear her former husband limb from limb.
His song reminds her, take the digitalis;
It is a curdled love, fermented malice.
(N.B. To save you the google, digitalis is heart medication. Thanks, lilymoore for the genius contest topic)
