i used to have a neighbor,
people called him fatty fat sam,
who would greet me at the door
with "i'm sorry, i really am."
"don't you say that ever again"
i told him "you've done nothing wrong,
still i won't call you a dear friend
as i prefer to be alone."
he wasn't noisy, he wasn't loud,
but actually quite quiet.
i advised "if you want to be proud,
you have to start a strict diet!"
women have broken his heart,
men have broken his bones,
he'd still find a smile apart
for those who threw him stones.
i spoke "in here you don't belong,
sam. you know my words to be true.
as a man, you'll never be strong
enough to do what you need to do."
then, one sunny sunday morning,
for no particular reason,
sam returned from holy communion
and i began my act of treason.
maybe it was out of pity,
perhaps my worst hangover,
i can't recall a death so pretty,
like summer in plain october.
and then cold stroke sam,
the penetrating sharpness of my blade.
i gazed at the carcass of a joke — a man!
while i packed the tools of my trade.
i pass the days whispering at the walls,
waiting for their gracious reply,
as a wingless angel that never falls,
so is a mystery to live and die.