Truncated - a poem by David Brayshaw

Truncated The night was soft and balmy There was magic in the air But planted in the background Were the seeds of dark despair.

I rose the morrow morning Washed my hair and both my teeth The day was bright and cheery But my happiness was brief.

For just as I was working hard At my second cup of tea A message came from Atkins To spoil my reverie.

Young Sharon's voice came on the phone Her tone was most severe She said, "It comes as no surprise That your pictures are all queer.

But even more than usual There's something mighty wrong They've crashed our new computer And Karen's done her scone.

Your subjects are truncated It's not a pretty sight The pixels are all over the place Like an epileptic's shite."

I telephoned the clients They gathered straight away They gazed upon their images And wept throughout the day.

The father of the bride arrived Prepared for blood and slaughter He cried out loud to the frenzied crowd "This man truncated my daughter."

The bride fell down upon her knees She cried "What shall I do? It isn't just the photographs, My groom's truncated too."

The groom was full of sadness, His face was dark and haunted, He said, "I've got her eyeball, But it's not the bit I wanted."

Then Paul arrived with a cheery grin And stopped the altercation He soothed the crowd and spoke out loud With a timely peroration.

So when I look back on my life To whatever fate awaited, There's nothing there that could compare With the day I got truncated.

David Brayshaw (dedicated to the greats at Atkins)

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