by Nick Gisburne
He drags the cart along a filthy street
The remnants of a miserable life
He needs to find some cash; he needs to eat
He needs to buy a gun; he needs a knife
At last, the battered building that he seeks
He hauls his only assets through the door
The place is full of junkies, tramps and freaks
A trail of stinking piss divides the floor
The broker finds a room and waves him in
A sturdy, surly woman with a scar
Uncovering the cart, she strokes her chin
She smiles and taps the ash from her cigar
“Good meat. I’ll take it. Fifty cents a pound
Your wife is it? I’m guessing she was drowned”
