He split his head in two, they said.
The print left prints on fingertips
When hands that scratched for truth
(Inky, demised, fantastic blues)
Got stuck between page three and ‘done’.
For the hand-me-downs of the Empress,
He stamped his feet into his knees,
The snap-flashes almost ate him up
While he quivered on the kitchen tiles.
Nobody knows who called the men
But their coats came flooding through some door
Before you could even see the signs
That something was knocked askew;
Legs, scissor-fixes with retardant wire,
Eyes like an asbestos mask, they
Copied a million, front page stuff,
He was flogged in the street by a fool.