OK, for a personal best, here's 23:
23 BY HITCH
Last night I sat and drank champagne
with two dark strangers on a train,
"Mr. and Mrs. Smith," they said.
I had my suspicion, but nodded my head.
North by northwest, we rode the rail
speaking of sabotage, topaz, blackmail,
the notorious skin game, the farmer's wife,
the thirty nine steps to a rich and strange life,
the birds out the window (she said "I'm a birder"),
and what would it take to justify murder.
She said, "For myself, it would take maybe like, oh,
the slightest offense to render me psycho.
"I killed on the lifeboat, with rope. I confess."
And I was the man, then, who wished to know less,
the man who knew too much . . . without
the ring of easy virtue or the shadow of a doubt.
Last edited by Roger Slater; 04-27-2009 at 07:27 PM.
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