Pickled onions,

Pickled plums,

It reminds my nostrils of poisoned rum.

Your mouth, it reeked for all fair morn’ with the praise of fainted lipstick torn.

Collarbone lifted, your shirt was cryptic:

A frozen blueprint of woman with milk.

Give her your kisses and leave me with the groceries,

And with the hair on your chinny, chin, chin,

I’ll slit your throat and watch you bleed like an outstretched goat.

With cinnamon and rosemary, we’ll hide the body.

With sugar and honey, we’ll sell you for money.

Over wine and celery, my mate and I are free.