Large Fierce Mammal

Murder by poison has a long dark history. For example, whether historically accurate or cooked up by rivals, the Borgia family name is indelibly stained with it. Poison is less used today for killing things that walk on two legs for reasons well presented by Esther Inglis-Arkell in her article The Deadliest Poisons in History (And Why People Stopped Using Them). Go and read that. You’ll enjoy it, and might even avoid arrest thereby. Major thanks to my Esteemed Friend Jim Keating for bringing it to my attention.

In this iteration of Dark Sentiments, we’ve already looked at one poisoner in my poem Laura’s Pie back on Day 2. You will recall that Laura liked to lure men with her mysteriously long lasting looks, charm them with her skills in the boudoir and kitchen,  and then kill them with her Hemlock laced pie. Her motives were obvious to everyone but her hapless victims who were all thinking with the wrong head.

Today we’re going to look at Bertram, who is a poisoner of a different sort. A restaurateur of renown, he reserves his deadly delicacies for entirely different reasons. Regardez …

Bertram’s Restaurant

By LFM

Bertram has a restaurant
He’s built for thirty years,
From ashes of six marriages,
Secured with sweat and tears.

The place is dark and trendy.
It is famous far and wide,
And might give Bertram every cause
To bust a gut with pride.

Where once he’d kissed the public’s ass
To get them in his door,
It now is Bertram’s ass they kiss,
And even beg for more.

He’s thought to be quite satisfied,
With everything he’s wrought,
But Bertram wears upon his soul
How dearly it was bought.

More and more, and year by year,
Resentment marinated.
The sauce of passion boiled away,
Reduced to blackest hatred.

Then, like a bolt the answer came,
One lonely, darksome night,
The gas valve lever in one hand,
The other set to light.

He didn’t hate this thing he’d built,
But felt he’d played the whore
To each and every monied cunt
Who came in through his door.

In truth, he’d come to hate them all,
So each and every May,
He soothes his savage breast
By taking one of them away.

All throughout the other months
Good Bertram plays the host.
Sifting through his guests to find
The one he hates the most.

And so, although a millionaire
Purveyor of renown,
His menu serves a darker dish
Less known about the town.

Bertram makes the dish himself,
And takes exquisite care.
He seasons it with pain and death,
And serves it up with flare.

The “special” only comes around
Each twenty-fifth of May.
His regulars all mark it down
And fill the place that day.

As lambs to slaughter, every one,
And not a one suspects
That wealth and privilege won’t save
The one that he selects.

For Bertram makes a special point
Of knowing all the needs
That might affect the length of life
For everyone he feeds.

His vengeance may take many weeks,
His timing’s gauged with care.
On any list of suspects you
Will not find Bertram there.

The lucky winner finds his death,
But not an easy one.
Make your reservation now.
Come in and join the fun.