Police - Never A Copper When You F....N Need One Poem by Paul Warren

He liked his new two storey house and his guns
He'd built up his business selling car parts with his sons
The house was in a new area and the roads were pristine
Until one afternoon hoons wanted to drop some rubber to be seen

So they were outside on the road and were dropping rubber around
And he was awakened by the roaring engine and spinning tyre sound
He came out into the driveway and asked them to stop and be gone
They gave him the finger, abused him and said old man go home

The harder he tried to reason with them the more abusive they became
Riling him up until he didn't know if he was coming or going as the same
So he went inside and took out his best pump action shot-gun
And went outside and was going to show he was number one

But the hoons only laughed and goaded him on
They said he was only bluffing and they they had already won
The front passenger hung out the front side window
And gave him the finger as the last gesture and they wouldn't go

The fire spoke out from the end of the barrel as the shot-gun was spent
And the hoon's face disappeared in a bloody cloud across the dashboard it went
He put another one up the barrel and fired a shot into the air
As the driver panicked and left the last rubber on the road there

They raced down the hill to the Para Hills Police Station
And those in one piece spilled out the car doors without hesitation
They ran inside the police building yelling for help from someone
The driver saying 'Never a copper when you f...n need one'

The police followed them out to the car-park and saw the ghastly sight
Of the dead front seat passenger and his last one finger gesture so tight
The the investigation produced a court case and the shot-gun user was
Convicted of manslaughter as the shotgun went off accidentally as the cause

So he did some time in Yatala Gaol and paid for his crime that day
That started with a group who brought their downfall by stupidity they would say
The last sign that he left for all was a finger raised to the world
And a shot-gun blast to the face was an epitaph that was all that was held.

© Paul Warren Poetry