David Lewis Paget

Gold Star - 8,027 Points (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

The Widow Of Martin Black - Poem by David Lewis Paget

Always a bit of a mystery,
She lived in a seaside shack,
Would go to town when the sun was down
The widow of Martin Black.
She always went in her mourning dress
And a veil that covered her face,
‘Do you think she’d date, ’ I had asked a mate,
‘You wouldn’t be in the race! ’

‘There’s a list of suitors, long as your arm
Just waiting to take her out,
They knew her back on her Daddy’s farm
When Martin wasn’t about,
But he trumped them all with his shiny Porsche
With his black cravat and coat,
And in the bay not a mile away
With his V6 Jet-ski boat.’

‘You tell me she was a good time girl
In love with material things? ’
‘She certainly liked the odd gemstone
And her hands were covered with rings.
But that was him, with his taste for gold
That he liked to shower on her,
And parade her down in the glitz of town
In bling, and covered in fur.’

‘And yet, I’ve not seen a single chain
Or a necklace, brooch or ring,
She’s so austere when I’ve noticed her
I’ve not seen anything,
She wears a drape of the blackest crepe
And a veil that hides her eyes,
But pauses there when I stop and stare
As if caught in some surprise.’

‘That isn’t much of a mystery
If you knew the couple, Jack,
You might as well be a twin of him
The fabled Martin Black.
She’d think that his ghost had risen up
If she saw you in the street,
You might just give her a heart attack
If your dress is not discreet.’

I went back home to the mirror, donned
A coat and a black cravat,
And topped it off with a load of bling
And an old black stove-pipe hat,
The type they said that he used to wear
When they roamed abroad at night,
Taking in all the music halls
To dance till the early light.

She saw me there in the street, and screamed
Then rushed at me and attacked,
And cried, ‘you’re not going to spoil my dreams,
You’ll not be coming back! ’
Her fists had pounded my solid form
Til she stopped, collapsed and cried,
And babbled out a confession that
For long, she’d kept inside.

The last I heard she was with the police
Who had questioned her all night,
Extracted all of the details of some
Long and drawn out fight,
They took her down to the waterfront
Where the Jet-ski boat was kept,
And then began to rip up the floor
As the widow wailed and wept.

And he was there with a livid scar
Where she’d slashed him in the throat,
Stuffed him under the planks and boards
By his pride and joy, the boat,
I didn’t know he had disappeared
When I’d thought to bring him back,
But all I’d caused was a host of tears
For the Widow of Martin Black.

13 March 2015

Topic(s) of this poem: horror

Form: Ballad


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Poem Submitted: Friday, March 13, 2015

Poem Edited: Friday, March 13, 2015


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