My English pleas:
dead butterflies on an Afrikaans desk.
Van Der Walt gestured for me to select a cane.
Or should we make it three?
His dastardly crew of hitmen,
clipped into a glass-doored cabinet:
mean and thin through to thuggish and thick.
Spoiled for choice, hey?
These men are gone;
their accurate arms and wrists,
dust, bones and ash.
Swish! Swish!
Their canes are just sticks,
preserved by lacquer
and a sadist’s dead love.
Don’t let me see you here again!
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