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
And all the other things.