Stole(n)

And there I was, alone in my room, reading, of course, and, because I like to live dangerously, my iPod (other digital music players are available) was hooked up to my stereo. Not inherently dangerous, you may think, but it was playing on shuffle and was well out of reach.

(as a side note, if you ever want to judge whether a relationship is going to be successful or not while it is still in its infancy simply look through the person's iPod to find the most embarrassing track on there and then draw this to their attention. Anyone who tries to fob you off with poor excuses (Its on a compilation, its my teenage sister's/mum's/grans, how did that get on there?) is not worth your time. Be proud of your own embarrassment.)

So, to return from parenthesis, there I was. And there she was, well, her voice, and who was she? Kelly Rowland. As the opening strains of a song long and oft forgotten My head rose from the dulcet, casual prose of A M Homes' 'Jack' and I smiled a smile borne by a 10 year old radical departure from the up-tempo pop stylings of Destiny's Child. Ah, sighed I as I sat back against the wall and listened to a sad lament of a school shooting. And then, the chorus began.

Mary's got the same size hands as Marilyn Monroe

And then I remembered what was about to happen.

She put her fingers in the imprints at Mann's Chinese Theatre Show.

Books flew asunder as I leaped from my duvet nest.

She coulda been a movie star, never got the chance to go that far

I crossed the room in a bound but my foot planted on some unmarked year nine work and I fell, ankle twisting, room listening furiously in my view. And the lines I had sought to prevent rang loud in my ears.

Her life was stole 
Now we'll never know. 

NOOOO I shouted. NO. Her life was not stole! Her life was STOLEN. He stole her life, Her life was stolen. Verb forms should not be the victim of sloppy half-rhyme songwriting.

Guess I need to switch off sometimes.

(for those people without a clue what this is about, click here.)
(for those interested in a better artistic appreciation of school shootings, try Killing Time by Simon Armitage. This is an excellent 1000 line poem written in 2000 as a tribute to the closing of the last millennium. Part of it is a treatment of the Columbine Massacre. It is, sadly, out of print, but is available sporadically on eBay. Extract here, although badly laid out.)