Murder On the Farm

Every Saturday
The Farmer’s wife
Takes a trip to town
On that big, red bus
The Farmer called it
‘That scarlet monstrosity’
Watching his wife embrace
The vulgarities
Of city life
A world she once inhabited

She returns
But the stench
Of the urbane,
Of the metropolis
Clings to her
Like stale sweat
Like the cow dung
That welds itself to her boots
Nothing the farmer does
Is ever good enough

Frugality abandoned
Fragility exposed
The old farmer
Murdered his wife
With gun, with knife,
With strangulation,
With blood-tipped axe
Just to ensure
That he had really
Finished her off

And this bucolic landscape
Is threatened no more

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