A Scottish Suicide

Someone is berated by an unknown assailant for not killing their-selves in a timely manner.

Jesus f**k, what are ye playin at?

This shite doesn’t even rhyme.

What, you think because your times run out,

You can start writing poetry now?

 

F**k sake, catch yourself on.

Weans in Africa dying for want of a feed,

And I’m to listen to you bleather on about

Images of fallen oaks and a slow train coming?

 

Jesus wept, that some poetic licence you’ve got there.

At the end of your tether,

And I’m meant to listen to all this bleather?

Jesus f**k.

 

‘I wondered lonely as some c**t?’

Who couldnae bite the bullet and be upfront?

I wonder if I can’t get out, of reading this poem

Whilst I’M still about?

 

Well f**k my old boots, you’ve some cheek,

To face yourself of as one so meek,

When you’ve apparently come to the end,

And yet written this, ya f*****g bellend?!

Ella Downing 06.04.2015