They have closed the police station at Gaffney's Creek where Constable Conlon, who has been there for 25 years, made his last arrest seven years ago.
I hear them speak of Gaffney's Creek in tones of unalloyed respect -- a model town that shall go down the ages with rare virtue decked. At Gaffney's Creek ne'er to the cheek of lisping innocence is brought the blush of shame that, through ill-fame, comes with the sin of being caught.
At Gaffney's Creek week after week, year after year the townsmen lurk at heaven's brink; they've closed the clink and sent the copper back to work, to some far clime where active crime gives cops a chance to run folk in. In that fair spot he's long forgot the very face of mortal sin.
At Gaffney's Creek reformers seek material for homilies that precept may, in this dark day, bring sinning cities to their knees. So meek, so mild is man and child at Gaffney's Creek that not for years have any folk blasphemy spoke or known an overload of beers.
To Gaffney's Creek no frowning Beak holds court while prisoners repine, and crooks await a cruel fate without the option of a fine. The cigarette has never yet been vended after six o'clock. The cells are kept clean, cold and swept; but rust consumes the prison lock.
O Gaffney's Creek! Fain would I seek content in your unsullied clime; but, sunk in sin, I labor in a town where cops work overtime. O magic brook! Could every crook hie there and wash away the reek of fouling crime hence for all time in waters pure of Gaffney's Creek.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|