Poem – Manchester, Scene One :

All shovels must be destroyed


Two sets of clothes


So one can be burned after the action.


Knives will be broken off


Melted down and once again burned.


No trophies


Anything connecting us to the events


Will be placed in a locker at the city station


To which only I have the key.


I wear riding gloves


But surgical ones beneath.


We spin the sad story of a lost treasure


The simple tales are the most effective.


What child can resist your crocodile tears?


None do.


The wind screams across the moor


And the game begins.

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