He killed his wife at night.
He had tried once or twice in the daylight
But she refused to die.
In darkness the deed was done,
Not crudely with a hammer-hard gun
Or strangler’s black kid gloves on.
She just ceased being alive,
Not there to interfere or connive,
Linger, leave or arrive.
It seemed almost as though
Her death was quite normal and no
Clue to his part would show.
So then, with impunity,
He called up that buttocky beauty
He had so long longed to see
All covering gone: the double
Joggle of warm weighty bubbles
Was sweet delirious trouble.
And all night, all night he enjoyed her;
Such sport in her smooth dimpled water;
Then daylight came like a warder.
And he rose and went down to the larder
Where the mouse-trap again had caught a
Piece of stale gorgonzola.
His wife wore her large woollen feet.
She said that he was late
And asked what he wanted to eat,
But said nothing about the murder—
And who, after all, could have told her?
He said that he fancied a kipper.