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Poem	He killed his wife at night. He had tried once or twice in the daylight But she refused to die. In darkness the deed was done, Not crudely with a hammer-hard gun Or strangler's black kid gloves on. She just ceased being alive, Not there to interfere or connive, Linger, leave or arrive. It seemed almost as though Her death was quite normal and no Clue to his part would show. So then, with impunity, He called up that buttocky beauty He had so long longed to see All covering gone: the double Joggle of warm weighty bubbles Was sweet delirious trouble. And all night, all night he enjoyed her; Such sport in her smooth dimpled water; Then daylight came like a warder. And he rose and went down to the larder Where the mouse-trap again had caught a Piece of stale gorgonzola. His wife wore her large woollen feet. She said that he was late And asked what he wanted to eat, But said nothing about the murder--- And who, after all, could have told her? He said that he fancied a kipper.
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