He was shaking  uncontrollably when I walked into his shop,

That skinny Asian shopkeeper.

My thoughts of the beautiful, white Crescent Moon

Were soon lost  in the ebony skies of late November.

Everyday complacency fled like winter sleet melted.

He'd seen the glint of the knife on that coal black night;

It was, he said, stutteringly, "the one in the hoodie, with no facial tattoo,

Who'd lunged forward screaming into thin air:

Put the fucking money in there!”

So what did Mr Patel do? In the blink of an eye?

An image flashed: two barrels of a shotgun blast

Brain matter splattered on the sweet counter,

A cross-eyed giant king snake,

Coming to England his biggest mistake. 

He imagined the robbers tossing his remains into hell

That's all there is to tell.

Except for his daily trembling when the shop bell

rings

And all the other things.