by Marion Clarke
I’m righting this frum jale. I didn’t meen to do it, I sware, but I kilt a man last munth. He storted tawking to me in the bawr, axing me stuff about my famly. I tolled him the names of my muther, bruthers and sisters and sed I had no farther. He sed, ‘I bet you wisht peeple didin cawl you a basterd?’ So I stabed him in the nek. He blade to deth on the flor. The barrman sed he’d axed for me. I’m feel bad now, but how woz I to no he was my farther?