The Warder of Cruel DelightA Poem by David Lewis PagetHe’d
spent his life as a Turnkey At
His Majesty’s Prison, Whailes, The
Warder, Walter McMurtrey Of
the grim and unwholesome tales, His
brow was grim and forbidding And
his fist was broken and scarred, He
took delight in the whipping Of
the prisoners, out in the yard. But
Gordon Pole was a special case For
the Warder’s cruel delight, He’d
take him out of his cell in chains And
scourge him, every night, ‘You
think you’re going to get out of here, Get
back to your former life, I
think you’re spending your life in here, While
I go sleep with your wife!’ But
Gordon bit on his tongue, until His
mouth was filled with blood, He
wouldn’t answer him back, he’d rather Take
it, while he stood, His
wife had lied in an open court The
law just took its course, He
asked her why she had lied, she said: ‘It’s
like a quick divorce!’ His
thoughts were black as he brooded Made
a note of every stroke, The
time would come, he concluded That
he’d walk, with other folk, But
deep within him a beast had stirred That
never would be allayed, Would
fill his mouth and his eyes and ears ‘Til
the debt in full was paid. It
raved in the darkness round his cell Kept
him awake for hours, Would
haunt his sleep and exhaust him ‘til He
went to the morning showers, The
scars were livid across his back, And
prisoners shrank in fear: ‘Just
why is McMurtrey after you?’ They’d
call, so he could hear. His
wife called once with the mortgage deed, ‘You’re
going to have to sign! Walter
says that you’ll be in here Until
the end of time. We’re
getting married, I thought you knew, He’s
more than good to me!’ ‘You
could have had him and let me go,’ Said
Gordon, ‘Let me be!’ The
beast arose in the midnight cell And
wriggled out through the bars, While
Gordon lay in a trance-like state, Dreaming
about the stars, It
made its way to the woman’s home And
it slid right under the door, Rose
up the stairs to the bedroom where It
gave out a mighty roar! The
neighbours said there were screams that night Enough
to curdle your blood, The
sounds of thrashing and weeping rent Their
way through the neighbourhood, McMurtrey
died from a thousand cuts, His
flesh was torn from the bone, His
head perched up on a lampshade, with One
hand still gripping the phone. And
high from the bedroom ceiling where The
beam ran over the bed, A
figure that had been screaming, was Not
screaming now, but dead! While
on the pillow the Holy Book Was
open, and left no doubt, For
she was hung from a butcher’s hook Wedged
deep in her perjured mouth. The
police came down and they searched his cell, They
checked the lock on the door, They
said they didn’t know how it was Despite
the blood on his floor, The
beast hid up in the ceiling space Was
blown away by the fan, And
Gordon smiled in his sleep that night, The
sleep of an innocent man. David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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