A Murder of My Past
A/N: A not so subtle poem, about someone Spike "knew"
I knew a boy,
Never rude
Always proper
A right old prude!
Ironed his clothes
Combed his hair
Trucked his feet together,
Sat straight up on his chair.
While other men would drink
Have their raucous fun,
He would sit alone
Writing poems for – no one!
He was too good
To brawl and fight.
He turned up his nose
To the lure of the night.
Civilised, proper-
A man of class.
The whimp couldn't see
With his head up his arse.
The other men mocked him,
He deserved what they said
That poncy wanker
I'm glad he's dead!