Ruthie Plackett lost her jacket
On the Severn line,
And once misplaced, she never traced
The things she kept inside:

Her recipes for aft’noon teas,
For scones with clotted cream,
For warm tray-bakes and sandwich cakes,
Of which her reg’lars dream.

And in there too, a tube of glue
With which she would repair
The cracking plates and old milk crates:
Make do and mend with care.

Her keys: no loss; at negligible cost
She’d soon have them replaced,
And the Carmex tin with not much in
Had acquired a funny taste.

It was, in fact, the lining that
Concealed a paring knife,
And with its blade, Ruthie had made
A move against a life.

Decades passed, and no-one asked
About the shadowy fella
Briefly seen, and darkly keen,
Now buried in the cellar.

So Ruthie Plackett, in her lined fur jacket,
Rode the Severn line,
And through her plight, she held on tight
To the secret hid inside.