by Nick Gisburne
With auntie’s body zipped inside a bag
The evidence is spirited away
The knife, the rope, the bloodstained piece of rag
The poisoned pills, all strangely go astray
Her two eccentric sisters kneel to mourn
Their tears are false, and few of us believe
We clutch our cups of tasteless tea with scorn
And hurry to the dining room to grieve
The meal is free of sympathy and chat
A race to reach the bottom of the plate
We mark her death, the odious old bat
A spiteful witch, deserving of her fate
They come to question all of us at three
But no one knows the murderer is me
