the day got up with a hang-over
birds played hide and seek
with a boy's flung stones
behind a window, a pentagram's scrawled on a wall
in red but it's saying nothing
Saturday's whores grow ripe with sweat and sin
On the cobbles at gap-toothed windows
a mongrel scratches its balls
whines for a wished-for bone
from under the pub door cigarette smoke seeps out
the smell of whisky and spit flows over the evening
Jeannie Froubister didn't throw herself off a bridge
or swallow a bottle of bleach
she met a murderer in an Edinburgh street
such a nice man too, with perfect hands and manners
and salaried, you can't trust anybody
strangled, and the washing still out drying
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