The Essex Boys went straight to hell

in a range rover shotgun blasted

 out of their vicious lives

in a cataclysm of shattered glass.

They'd been set up by the sniff of drugs

which turned in on itself

like a fairy tale from Grimm

on that cold frosty field in December.

A date to remember in itself.

 

The post mortem gallery, puppet parody

masterclass of destruction -

driver's foot wedged down by shock

engine cut, hand on the key.

Eyes staring close - up at random

forced round by pressure 

a smorgasbord of human remains

the exposure of brains.

 

"Those slags were asking for it

with their liberties - 'ad it coming."

was the epitaph.

then the photograph .       mug shots,

names stitched on,

urban history flagged.

A travesty of misspent life itself

filed away on some stainless shelf.