A Murderous Ambition: a Poem

From an early age
With matters medical
Proved most grave
For the teacher
Who in fault
Thought that I could
Not be taught
The Know-how of
A simple surgeon.
He the first
I chose to bludgeon.

Yes, but not defeated–
My studies
Not yet all completed,
I sought word with
A wiser scholar,
But found he was
Both false and hollow,
Who would add nothing
To my life.
He the second
With my knife.

Alone now
In a world against me.
Seeming no-one
To befriend me.
The thoughts I had
Of doing good,
Every one
By a brother
Who should know better.
He the third,
Gets my blood-letter.

Takes care of its own,
Seeds already sewn,
But if one slips
From Nature’s shawl,
Is God not there
To break the fall?
The vicar did not
Seem to think so.
He the fourth
To get the heave-ho.

The word that some would use,
But to this charge
I do refuse
To take the total

I have been bad.
I know it’s true.
But would the same
Be said of you
Given different

Is all I have been searching;
Along whose path
I have been lurching.
So single-minded
In my aim,
Not planning harm,
Not wanting maim,
But he who blocks me
From my goals,
My shotgun fills
With little holes.

I left a few.
Forensic tests
They clearly knew
‘Twas I that they
Were seeking.

An inspector called
One day alone.
He thought jail would
Make me atone
The dark deeds that
I had committed
And be a place
Where my face fitted.
He could have been
My number five,
But through my choice
He stayed alive.
For once the master
Of my Life,
I took it as a

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus Longfellow wouldn’t hurt a fly in real life.

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