RDW's poems

10- She Goes on the Jerry Springer Show

I want to have my say.  It isn’t fair.
The rest talk you to death – and after death
still they talk on.  About me, they don’t care.
I’m choked off here – I want to spend my breath

to tell my tale.

I’m on!  I hold this sign:

I’m married to my husband’s murderer,
usurper of the throne, and plotter in
attempted murder (didn’t quite occur)

of my one son, that one, who turns around
and by mistake stabs his fiancée’s Dad
which sends the fiancée mad – she goes and drowns

They stopped me there:  no room left on the card.

Ah, well.  The worst is past.  My son’s OK.
Tonight he’s being nice:  giving a play.



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