Quicksand.
And chloroform.
And falling through a branches trap,
into a giant pit. Hauled
up by a net that right upon my path was set,
and let's not forget the constant threat
of only finding out after my abduction
that I was being replaced by my evil twin,
of whom I had never heard.
The fear of cars with brakes tampered;
my arch-nemesis balancing out of sight
above the stage performance of my life,
ready to cut the rope holding up the batten,
and then slink away after I was flattened;
Being the one who would have to choose
to snip the red wire or the blue,
before the device could explode.
How I dreaded rabies, which particularly scared me,
and poisoning with no sign of antidote.
Then I grew up and realistic, and now I know that the statistics
do not favour plots of nineteen-eighties' shows.
I wish that I could feel free to expect our women's safety,
and that quicksand was what we dreaded most.
(Explanation: RIP Ashling Murphy, and all the other women).
