O what is that sound—a shot in the night?
Down in South L.A., a shot, then a round?
Only the cops, practicing for a fight,
The cops, clowning around.
O what is that shadow I see—just the toes—
next to the dumpster, that look so cold?
Only the trash, my dear, an old pair of hose,
twisted, dirty, covered with mold.
O why are these women being murdered again?
Why are these women now dead in a ditch?
All those years, my dear, then a shift in the brain,
some kind of desperate, terrible itch.
Why haven’t they arrested the neighbor?
Why haven’t they sent out an alert?
Why do none of them use a lie detector?
Why are none of them experts?
O is it the white dude they want,
is it the white dude? Is it?
No, the white dude’s run off to Vermont,
my dear, and the judge can’t issue a writ.
O it must be the coked-up cop caught with a prostitute
though he died before the new murders began—
That will be a bit hard to prosecute.
Now they think it’s a married man.
O what are they doing with our son’s DNA
what are they doing with their chemistry?
Only the usual, dear, for the catch-of-the-day,
or perhaps they’re hoping for efficiency.
O where are you going now? Stay with me here.
Were the vows you made out of nothing?
It seems I’m not such a good liar, dear,
I must be leaving.
O our lock’s broken, the door is smashed,
O the intercom’s screeching, screeching.
They throw our grandkid’s toys in the trash,
and their eyes are burning.