by Nick Gisburne
She was seven when she killed a man, for me,
When I told her it was what she had to do,
And she whispered, sipping lemon-scented tea,
That she liked it, so I taught her, and she grew.
There was never any doubt she was the best,
Always clinical, methodical, precise.
As she murdered, each invigorating test
Gave her qualities I never taught her twice.
At eleven there was nothing more to know,
Now the ultimate assassination tool.
When they came to claim her, many years ago,
Did the gang who bought her think to find a fool?
They were dead, their dreams dismantled, in a week.
There is darkness in my daughter, Angelique.
