Little Harry Poem by Ashley Hawkes

Harold was an evil child
Conceived on a stolen train
Born in a sack from a prostitutes back
He had murder on his brain

As a babe he took the greatest joy
In spitting on his Mother’s breast
He would wait till she was near asleep
Then scream to break her rest

At Two he strangled an alley cat
And orphaned all her kittens
At Three he murdered all of those
With blood he felt quite smitten

Four and Five were dreadful years
As Harold only worsened
To become at the tender age of six
A most formidable person

He’d wear his knickers day and night
In a knot atop his head
By day he’d make up murder songs
At night his mind burned red

For blood this little chap did thirst
He yearned for life to cease
He killed his mum, his dad, his aunt,
His little brother Reece

And finally, the little sod
Climbed the house’s highest shelf
The final act, the curtain fall
Little Harry killed himself