Maybe

Maybe it was meant to be a joke,

Spraying on the old man's garden wall.

Proud of his home and thirty years at sea,

He who made welcome all who came to call.

Generous with gifts to Church and down and outs,

An upright man who fell foul of louts.

H e caught them in the act one dark wet night,

Returning from the village pub.

They jeered and beat him, set his coat alight,

Kicked him and killed him with a club.

His blood ran in the gutter with the rain.

He dies at half past ten in blinding pain.

Maybe a day will come when laws are kept,

Thieves and vandals caught and sent to jail,

Our walls are clean, the Police and Councils not inept.

Order, manners and courtesy prevail.

The weak, the old, the young, indeed all,

Go safe and free and we again walk tall. 

Max Frost

2 Feb 2004