Was it a Friday - going into Saturday...
Just another routine "does it matter?" day?
The call came in around two in the morning
The sort you can get without any warning.
"Come quick" it said, "there's been a death",
A case of someone fresh out of breath.
The timing was poor - aye, there was the rub,
We were nearly due to book in for our grub.
But duty called and we boarded the van
That saw us on way to that distant dead man,
To be met by a porter who then led the way
All the while muttering what he had to say
About what a shock the discovery had been,
Why did he do it - and what did it mean?
The lino between cubicles reflected dim light
Adding to the feeling that things weren't quite right.
The porter then pointed - suddenly silent and grim
At the unlucky soul living next door to HIM.
A friend who had stood on a chair to converse
Over the cubicle wall - to find something far worse!
The deceased was hanging by some string from a beam
Beyond a bunk bed - like some nightmarish dream.
None of us had any scissors or a blade
And the porter responded "Me neither, I'm afraid".
So he was sent off to find what was needed
And into the cubicle we duly proceeded.
Under the dead man's ponderous stare,
Some taking his legs and lifting him there,
Struggling with the dead weight of his unhelpful size,
When the porter returned with the sought-after prize.
There was swaying and cursing to get the job done
And some crashing and banging to add to the fun,
When someone shouted out (I imagined his frown!) ,
Bellowing in displeasure "Keep that bloody noise down,
There's some of us here that are trying to sleep"......
So, trying our best to oblige we started to creep,
Whispering and lowering him down...oh so quiet.
Intent on forestalling a neighbouring riot.
With the mystery of how - with the world free to roam -
A Polish sailor hung around in that dockland Seaman's Home.