Medieval as it was, I was taking no chances
The day the Prime Minister walked under a ladder.
Up went my umbrella and, sure enough, no farther
Than two metres from a newspaper stand I glanced off
A loose chunk of eighteenth century fire-brick
That came away from the south wall and fell
On the Minister who followed behind. I could tell
From the gasping crowd that stone had done its work.
At the funeral all admitted it was not my fault –
Except Condolences Dineen, who claimed that my umbrella
Was his. We argued this insimulatio for days, the area
Around our shoes growing white with talismans of salt.