A few years ago was ‘Harper’s Island’,
A model of economy, thirteen shows
Of slasher-cum-mystery and the whole
Thing done, babes & brutes butchered, bloodied sand;
& now I just don’t think I can withstand
Twenty-two, forty-four, one hundred hours
Of over-privileged overkill, soured
By ever-shrinking returns, the end a land
Indefinitely horizoned. So while,
Sweet antiheroine, your adventures,
Wiki tells, are a leading trashy light
Stateside, your skeleton smiling lies
Will here be neither Tivoed nor calendared.
It’s Webster for me, he’s done in a night.