Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I got it for a snip, scrapyard in Chicago,
I’m not kidding you, they couldn’t give it away,
You see it, well, to be honest, it stinks,
Of death;  I tell you true;  touch the bullet holes,
See?  Can you imagine, Clyde Barrow lying dead,
Bleeding out his evil, blood on his money,
Dirt on this beauty, Bonnie dead too?
Anyway, as I said, Sam, my buddy,
Asked to drive her; damned if I didn’t agree,
And this is what he told me:  Tuscaloosa, somewhere near,
He was night driving, no one on the road,
Black as brimstone, boy puts on the radio,
Here’s Hank singing ‘Wreck on the Highway’,
Too spooky, turns it off, suddenly there’s this feeling,
Somewhere in back, sort of premonition,
And damned if this guy, white as a ghost,
Greased hair, in a suit, don’t spring up in back seat;
Sam brakes her darn quick, like the devil’s behind him;
Stay cool, this guy says;  there’s a gun in his hand,
His voice has a kinda lilt, sort of ladylike but he looks evil,
Almost glowing, green face, violet eyes,
A killer;  Sam knows;  but to cap it all
When he looks back, there’s a body, a cadaver
Slumped there, poleaxed;  probably a gas station clerk,
There’s blood trickled down his chin on to his shirt;
Drive, says the guy;  Drive to hell, boy!
Sam’s hair’s on end;  his teeth are chattering;
His eyes are open like a porch door,
But dammit he drives;  down the highway,
Heart going like a piston, pretty near mad;
Well, about ten miles on, they see this figure,
She’s at the roadside, this blonde hitchhiker,
Thumb stuck out, casual, like it was clear as day,
Stop, says the guy;  Sam stops;
The girl gets in front, from her eyes you’d almost guess
She couldn’t see the killer;  Could you take me to Nashville, honey?
She says, settling down,
She’s a beauty of course, brown eyed, nice body,
Sam’s too scared to say no, he knows he’s gotta drive,
Straight out to the other side of somewhere, so he goes;
You got a light, honey? says the girl;  Sam goes trembling for his matches,
S-Sure, he stutters;  he strikes the match,
The thing flickers and lights;  it’s like it’s all gone quiet,
The highway’s there, the desert, but he can’t find no girl,
And he looks back, and the bad guy’s gone too, and the corpse,
He has to stop;  poor Sam, he searches the car,
Nothing ’cept the smell, and the night, cool and empty;
Maybe a plane somewhere far off, maybe a rooster crowing;
Well, old Sam, he drives back to me;  I open up,
And he falls into my arms, dead fainted away;
See, Mister, this car’s got a history, a real authentic history;
Why don’t you try her?  OK, take the key;
You’re a brave man, Mister;  be seeing ya.