not many there today to see him go

curtain opens up and away he slides

soon its back to scissors and comb

my specialty is short back and sides

increasingly I'm tempted by necks

a cut-throat razor in my right hand

so vulnerable with arteries bulging

I cannot expect you to understand

yet I'm no modern sweeney todd

its doing the embalming at night

the danger of...

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you say I'll get what's coming to me

that I'll pay for making your life hell

one day I'll be on the receiving end

when hot flames I no longer quell

there's a smouldering hell in every heart

waiting its moment to rise up and burn

it lurks beneath the smiles and glances

you're lucky if you don't get your turn

yet I never meant to make you suffer

I'm no saint but ...

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on the roof hawk chicks

secure at

twenty-three

floors high

nestle their mother

under bright sun

watching

the male soar

free to hunt,

enquiring amber eyes seeing

colours we can't

no

flames

disturb the

eyrie no

screams ascend or

smoke black as

seventy-one funerals

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