The Man – Eduard Dantes

There’s a man
going round
Causing fear and pain.

He is not a rider
No, His collar is too white.
And he’s not an outlaw
For his suit
Is a particular shade of blue
Of which you and I
Are unaccustomed to.
That or it is a black
That is a shade blacker
And cut to fit
The sleeves of his shirt
Held together by
Diamond studded cuff-links
And to highlight the
Crispy white triangular kerchief
Peeking out of his breast pocket.

He is no murderer
Though when he leaves
Death and sorrow and suicidal thoughts
Tend to abound.

He carries no weapons;
A briefcase full of paper
Is all he needs
To leave you swinging in the air
With dancing feet.

The children
Have heard tell of him
And though they all
Want to be like him;
Fancy cars
Feathered mattresses
And fine dining,
When they hear
The two silent clicks,
A swish of paper
And most of all,
When they see
The look on their parents faces

They know of winters to come
And understand
The faces of those
By the city side-walks
Empty of all
Save sadness, pity
And the desire for a warm meal.

When the man comes
Children hide
Under their beds and in corners
For the fear
Of a loss in the quality of life.


his name rhymes with ‘mince’. He’s rarely without a notebook and can usually be found next to the closest bottle of red wine. Previously a writer for The Roehampton Lane Journal.

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