Darren was a bit of a lad.
He loved necking pints,
and slapping female bums.
He once built a wall with his bare hands
just so he could kick it down.
I saw him smash a glass in a pub by accident one night
and not even tell a member of staff.
He was tough.
If he was a biscuit
he would definitely have been a HobNob.
A concrete covered HobNob.
Last Mother’s Day
Darren wrote his mum a poem.
It read: “Mother, your beauty is beyond compare;
I mean the beauty that’s within in you,
not just your hair.
You’re a woman I admire,
Full of love and desire,
And you’re so thoughtful and gentle and fair.”
A silence hung in the air
as Darren waited for his Mother’s reaction to the limerick,
and it was as soon as the laughter left her lips
that Darren dropped dead from a broken heart.
© Carl Burkitt 2013