by Nick Gisburne
The woman, wanton, whispers, “Play along,
You’re not the one they want. They’re after me.
The evidence against you isn’t strong.
By sundown, maybe sooner, you’ll be free.”
It wasn’t she who strapped me to a chair,
And screamed that I would suffer if I lied.
Her partner, though she claims they’re not a pair,
Is clearly not a man to be be denied.
A document is offered. “Sign. Confess.”
He waits. She winks. I don’t know what to do.
I’m only certain this is not my mess.
She smiles. She smoulders. “Sign it. Say it’s true.”
I do it, but they tie me to a stake.
Perhaps my hormones made a small mistake.
