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The following rather sombre offering was largely composed and memorised during eleven and a half hours spent on a hospital trolley at the Leicester Royal Infirmary.  I have to admit to feeling more than a little sorry for myself at the time.

It would be nice to take some useful, safety-related message away from the experience, but I think it was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Mopedist’s Lament.

No warning sound, no warning sight,
  of the car that cut in from the right.
Driven by a lady, who,
  next birthday will be seventy two.

Joyful engine song cut short
  as rider and old mount cavort
in brief, grotesque balletic dance.
  She hadn’t given them half a chance.

No more consummate machine/man blend.
  Instead, two broken heaps, one steel, for scrap?
  The other flesh, luckily, to mend.

Bill Cockburn  12 July 2000


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