Thursday, 18 December 2014


    Maureen Clifford ©The Scribbly Bark Poet

Old Tom was a known killer...A Judas of the sea,
who hunted out of Eden, with complete impunity.
Backed by a gang of cut throats, who were always seen in black
he drove his victims to their death and never once looked back.

A fearless fighter, he was known for his cunning and guile,
entrapping victims in his net, dispatching them with style.
The dirty work was not for him, let others do the deed.
Taking the victims breath away, dispatching them with speed.

At Twofold Bay, autumn appeared his favorite time to kill.
Killers of Eden struck out then for their vicarious thrills.
Old Tom was undisputed leader of this wretched pack.
He died in 1930 and the others came not back.

His bones remain.  A grisly sight put out there on display.
Poetic justice some would think, for he showed no dismay
when luring others to their feast on shared delights.
A cannibalistic banquet, consumed at dead of night.

The victims tongue and lips were sought, though not for love or passion
but rather as a delicacy, consumed in mordant fashion.
The carcass then was cast aside...left to decomposition.
A floating, rotting, stinking corpse, requiring no mortician.

But how pray tell did Tom escape the justice and the law?
His deeds were seen by many and told of by many more.
The Black Killer of Eden appeared often defended
by men who worked  alongside him, men whom he had befriended.

This Eden was no paradise, just a small fishing town
upon the coast of New South Wales, it's one place of renown
was Twofold Bay.  Humpbacks and Southern Rights would pass its door.
Killers of Eden would dart out and herd them into shore.

Then whaling boats, with steel harpoons would dart into the fray.
Blue water whipped to bright pink foam as whale blood tinged the bay.
Their cries unheard by human ears, echoed o’er ocean floor,
as Flukes beat helpless, helpless, helpless, till they beat no more.

Yes Old Tom was an Orca, and he hunted in a pack
of other killer whales, a kind of whale sheepdog attack.
His human friends rewarded him with victim’s tongues and cheeks
and seems that was payment enough, the price Old Tom did seek.

Survival of the fittest or intelligence at its best?
Whilst  Tom was helping others, for his body they'd not quest.
He lived, he swam, 
he ate, he played......
a mutual collusion.
Perhaps this was his plan...who knows...
What would be your conclusion?

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