Alchemisland

Paper with a name but I’m not out to vote

I don’t know his name, location pin where I’m to go

Think he’s Bulgarian, all told a scary bloke

In the laneway where I’m to meet him

A cider-sombre tramp was purging vilely, boke after boke

I say your name, he says nothing then goes

Two days later I receive a fateful text on my phone

From a number I don’t know:

Done, any other work hit me up again

And that was that, rest in peace, Ken.

Text his missus the usual, so sorry, Hen.