The bedroom smelt of sex and smoke,
Of old cigars and passions broke.
A broken bucket by the wall,
Tangled sheets to break a fall.
A splash of red against the bed,
A book discarded, yet unread.
A pair of mittens furred and full,
Pretentious wall-art, all so dull.
The bed at angles, bed posts wrecked,
A stack of cards, perhaps once decked.
A lacy glove and lacy clothes,
Creased, aged parchment filled with 'oaths'.
Jack Daniel's finest, smooth and thick,
A woman's clutch with rouge lipstick.
An ancient camera, pictureless,
And yet more red with more finesse.
Among this mess, cacophony,
Lies a woman, dead is she.
Her line of pearls about her neck,
In one gloved hand a crumpled cheque.
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