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The Seven Deaths of Horatio McGubbin - or Keeping it Interesting
by ChloŽ Yates

The first time could have been coincidence
- but how many combine harvesters gain sentience?
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m actually impressed,
But somehow Shirley snapped the brakes
And I’m being harvested to death.

The next time was in Paris, the metro seemed so nice
But an underground train sure exacts a heavy price.
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m heartily impressed,
But somehow Shirley pushed me hard
And I’m being crushed to death.

Third time was in Amsterdam, a haven of canals,
But I didn’t have much time to look because of my grand mal.
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m mightily impressed,
But somehow Shirley tripped my switch
And I’m being seized to death.

Then there was Columbia, a country wild and free,
I didn’t realize drug cartels would be interested in me.
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m entirely impressed,
But somehow Shirley grassed me up,
And they’re kingpinng me to death.

The bathtub incident happened next, it might have just been chance,
But I put my foot in the water and suddenly began to dance.
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m utterly impressed,
But somehow Shirley sunk the radio
And I’m being zapped to death.

I am not an innocent, not by any means,
But even I would draw the line at death by bakŤd bean.
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m enormously impressed,
But somehow Shirley doctored tea
And I’m being beaned to death.

Last, but by no means least, there was the occasion of the anchor.
I’d rowed us far out to sea but I failed to see the tanker.
I don’t know how she did it,
I’m totally impressed,
But somehow Shirley changed the shipping lane
And I’m being sunk to death.

Luckily for me, seven deaths aren’t much,
Of lives I have a dozen – a very handy crutch.
Still, I don’t know how she does it,
I’m thoroughly in awe,
But somehow Shirley’s planning number eight
And death’s knocking at my door.