Many years ago I came across this fantastic short story by Graham Greene. I took an immediate liking to this story. Here I attempt to present this in a rhyming poem:
A Little Place
off the Edgware Road
To be or not to be?
That’s not the question;
For when goes all your courage flee
You don’t remember to have fun.
I know of an incident that makes me scream
It’s by the ultimate chronicler Graham Greene.
There was going a man, Craven by name
Tight in his mackintosh in thin summer rain.
All the way up the park, he was reminded of love &
passion.
But for love, you needed money, suit car & a mansion.
It seemed as if he had a heavy mental load.
He came to A LITTLE PLACE OFF THE EDGWARE ROAD.
There he hated his hatred of hating the Guardsmen.
A better body than his was with each of them.
As he walked on the side streets round the Edgware road,
He noticed the posters outside the disused theatre in Culpar
road.
No film had ever succeeded there;
Rat holes and spider webs were scattered everywhere.
Worth a shilling to Craven, the seats were cheap.
Protected from the rain, at least he could sleep.
The film was of ‘The Home of the Silent film’ race;
There were not mere twenty people in the place.
A middle aged actor lay on an elbow with his arm round a
woman.
The song tinkled and the screen flickered like indigestion.
Somebody felt his way through the darkness past Craven’s
knees;
Craven felt a large beard brushing his mouth and it didn’t
make him please.
By the time, the actress had stabbed herself
The new man asked why she did so to herself.
None was interested and the film was not over yet.
But the small bearded man was absorbed only in the actor’s
death.
Craven was a bit allergic to blood
But the man wanted it to flow like flood.
“What are you talking about?” asked Craven.
When the man spoke, he sprayed a breath albeit a damp one.
There was also a little bubble in his speech
As if he wanted blood like a leech.
Soon they got caught in a small wrangle;
The man made Craven to come in a tangle.
Craved turned and tried to see him
But he couldn’t as the light was dim.
The man talked to himself as if he was sane
Spraying the same breath to Craven, again.
Suddenly and confidingly, he laid on Craven his hand;
It was so damp and sticky that Craven was about to stand.
Craven replied with horror “What are you talking?”
“A man in my position gets to know almost everything.”
Knowingly, the little man began to titter;
Unless for those hands, Craven would have ignored him
altogether.
The man’s head had a habit of lolling sideways
He mentioned ‘Bayswater Tragedy’ anyways.
Craven had seen those words on a poster at the park.
When asked about it, the little man began to bark.
He began to cough right at the face of Craven;
‘Twas like vindictiveness, more than that of a raven.
“Let me see. My umbrella”, the voice said
Losing the word, past Craven’s knees he got laid.
Craven was to see him but the screen went blank and bright;
Somebody had turned up the dirt-choked chandeliers’ light.
Craven then saw on his hands a smear;
At the sight of blood, he began to fear.
He went to look out for the madman, but in vain.
So he dialled 999 with a sense of sane.
There he got a horrible news-
A man’s neck was cut from ear to ear in Cullen Mews.
He told that he had sat next to the murderer, as to him it
had appeared.
A voice from next end said, “We have the murderer. It’s the
body that has disappeared.”
