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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It’s really morbid, depressing, and sad, at the gunpowder factory in town, and the clean up is almost complete since the factory was razed to the ground, and here in the lounge of the tavern, the inquiry’s about to begin, ‘cause this is where most of the workers, who witnessed what happened’s within. And so poor Charlie Higgins’ deceased. A friend to us drinkers here in the pub, and the question is rife - ‘what happened?’ The investigator searched for the rub. I listened to all of his workmates, explain through the beer, sobs and their tears, about being in shock; hearing the bang, until Bertie Simpson quietly appears. Now Charlie was Bert’s closest colleague, where the gunpowder’s mixed in a room, so here was the the only eye witness, who was there through the fire and the boom. The investigator asked “so what happened?” then all our eyes converged onto Bert, who emptied his glass, and cleared his throat, before his evidence to the expert. “Charlie and I were in the mixing room, when I saw Charlie lift a cigarette out, and when he lit it I saw a few sparks. The next thing I knew I was up and about. The joint was like neon signs in a cyclone, filled with smoke when the flames died down, I was dazed and confused and went looking, to see where Charlie was hanging around.” The investigator asked in stunned horror, “Charlie smoked where gunpowder is made! How long had he been working in there?” Bert shrugged and said “more than a decade.” “Ten years in a room filled with danger; You’d think it’d be his last silly act!” And Bert sniffed and wiped away tears, “Well it was as a matter of fact.”
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