You miserable low-life bastard.
We saw you on the fourth of September
Crawling into town on your spineless spine, giving us a flick and looking us over.
It was an earthquake then for the Yellow Pages
Remember the torches, the bottles of water.
In September, you were just a piano player tinkling the ivories, thin mustache, pretty out there, eyeing the women on the dance floor.
Then my, oh my you waited.
I saw you the other day running up a blind alley full of hatred and with dark breath.
Black clouds could only pity us.
You held us down on the jagged ground.
You shook the streets and the city buildings.
You tore the spire from the cathedral.
And all those poor people.
The tourists taking photos
The babies taken in pairs
The hikers in the hills
The ones buried beneath us still.
You miserable bastard of a thing.
"The time has come," said the drummer to the drum, "when I can make no sense of it."
Read on Afternoons with Jim Mora by Gary McCormack, National Radio - The Panel, Part 2 @ 12:47mins.
Christchurch. February 22 2011. 12:51pm. Magnitude 6.3. 123 dead - now (27 Feb) 146 dead.
200+ still missing.
Things like this just don't happen in New Zealand.