Unto us . . .

by Spike Milligan

Somewhere at some time

They committed themselves to me

And so, I was!

Small, but I WAS!

Tiny, in shape

Lusting to live

I hung in my pulsing cave.

Soon they knew of me

My mother – my father.

I had no say in my being

I lived on trust

And love

Tho’ I couldn’t think

Each part of me was saying

A silent ‘Wait for me

I will bring you love!’

I was taken

Blind, naked, defenseless

By the hand of one

Whose good name

Was graven on a brass plate

in Wimpole Street,

and dropped on the sterile floor

of a foot operated plastic waste bucket.

There was no Queens Counsel

To take my brief.

The cot I might have warmed

Stood in Harrod’s shop window.

When my passing was told

My father smiled.

No grief filled my empty space.

My death was celebrated

With tickets to see Danny la Rue

Who was pretending to be a woman

Like my mother was.

Published by Robin

I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.

2 thoughts on “Unto us . . .

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