Dad waits at the edge of the cricket pitch
with a Walther PPK and a grudge,
loading 7.65mm cartridges like little lipsticks,
training the muzzle on the nearest mound.
He knows what he will say -
he has practised his lines;
revenge is a dish best served
surreptitiously spunked-on.
He will chamber a round:
'You rogered my wife,
you bastard,' enuciated coolly,
but with a hard glare, 'well roger this.'
A pinch of the trigger, a kick;
nasal ganglia bursting
like a party favour.
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