In the hush of Bedford’s bones,
where brick remembers sin,
the walls still hum with secrets
of what once was… and is again.
White dust danced on velvet nights,
pills tucked neat in palms,
deals were inked in shadowed rooms
with poison in their charms.
Behind the curtains, whispers crawl,
names unspoken, yet they breathe,
Falmouth’s heart beats slow and sly,
its stories grind beneath.
Corruption wears a Sunday smile,
a handshake, firm and clean,
but money talks in backroom codes
the public’s never seen.
Still, the whisper finds its way,
from lips that dare to speak,
a trickle first, a flood to come,
the truth is springing leaks.
So drop your whispers, feed the fire,
submit them to the fold,
for every tale, a thread unspooled,
unveiling what’s been sold.
Stay close, stay sharp, stay tuned, my friend,
the storm has just begun
and what they thought would stay entombed
will soon be told by everyone.
The Whisperer