Lord Lucan

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

So he’s finally dead, death certificate written
A wonderful mystery, from Great Britain
The story of an Earl, known as a Lord
Who disappeared, thought to have fled abroad

He loved a gamble, backgammon or bridge
Lost more than he won, on average
Drove an Aston Martin, raced a power boat
Was considered for James Bond, he would often gloat

He married Veronica Duncan, three children she bore
But the marriage between them, became a chore
They soon separated, and a custody battle ensued
Grave times ahead, trouble it brewed

He spied on his wife, telephone conversations recorded
Had gambling debts, which could not be afforded
The dramatic effect, on his life had a toll
Lord Lucan was spiralling, out of control

It was 1974, the month of November
A time Lady Lucan, will always remember
The children’s nanny was murdered, a savage attack
Bludgeoned to death, from behind her back

The killer attacked, Lady Lucan too
Left her battered, black and blue
But she did survive, and to the police she told
Lord Lucan did this, this act so cold

The good Lord he fled, he was on the run
First East Sussex, then Newhaven
They found the car, bloodstains everywhere
Lead piping in boot, handle with care

The police couldn’t find him, a death inquest took place
In his absence, he was known as the face
Who had killed his children’s nanny, her life did thwart
Last occasion in Britain, for a Coroner’s Court

They searched the harbour, suicide suspected
They found a body, skeleton detected
But it was that of a judge, who had disappeared years before
Lord Lucan was history, would be seen no more

Roy Ranson the Super, the man in charge
Led the chase, for Lucan at large
He felt obliged to say, that Lucan had fallen on his sword
Death in the Channel, or perhaps abroad

He then changed his tune, ruling suicide out
That Lucan refused, of this there’s no doubt
He was probably a risk, and his death would be planned
Buried covertly, somewhere in Switzerland

His disappearance captivated, the attention of the world
Would truth be revealed, could it be unfurled
Sightings were made, so often a hoax
No smoke without fire, but fire it smokes

The funny thing is this, he’d be 82 this year
A long time yes, to disappear
But no body’s been found, so can we be sure
That the life of Lord Lucan, breathes no more

It’s feasible he’s alive, he’s not that old
But the likelihood is, his body is cold
He got away with murder, the limelight fled
From a house in Belgravia, where a woman lay dead

Footprints
The Maltese Falcon Vol V
Boarding-Out Regulations 1955

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