One Sunday evening, with overwhelming Monday in prospect,
Vera, for once, couldn’t talk down the gun-toting suspect.
Instead, he denied everything, lawyered up, all poker-faced
And his counsel tore apart the largely circumstantial case.
As a result, his daily Tik Tok woke conspiracy message
Made him a hero for incels and boys groping for rites of passage.
He snagged a nightly show on the GB News channel
Where he spoke, at length, about being cancelled
While promoting his clothing range and dietary supplements.
He was a Question Time panellist on six occasions.
His Insta showed him on a cliff, fuming about small boats somewhere.
He opened up to a friendly journalist about his recent cancer scare
And how, since his wife’s murder, they only let him see his sons
Under strict supervision once a month.
Returning to that final scene which, by now, was on ITV3,
He found Vera, looking flushed, fumbling for her keys.
As he reclaimed the gun from what was still his house, after all,
She pulled down her hat, shook her head, drove off towards
The vague city of conscience that still sweats ugly blood
to save the day in the nick of time for Monday’s common good.