I clonked my lover on the skull;
Her corpse lay stiff and ashen,
Her skin off-white, her pupils dull.
It was a crime of passion.
She lay upon the double-pile:
To me, an object votive.
I saw her bruises, had to smile,
For passion was my motive.
Police arrived to comfort me,
And never guessed my guilt,
Nor saw the passion, wild and free,
Where blood and tears were spilt.
Morticians and insurers came;
I came all over funny:
Had you been me, you'd been the same -
I'm passionate for money.