Click here to listen to Jill McDonough read this poem.
He drank all night and then all day, and fought his brother-in-law in the street. He killed him. The one who saw the murder said after he fired the shot and James Blunt fell, Cooke looked a little stunned and walked around to address the torn, burnt head: Son of a bitch: I've killed you, have I? His defense was simple: not responsible, they said, by reason of being crazy drunk. No chance.
On the scaffold, his gait and voice were firm and clear:
It was at once evident to all that Cook
meant to die game. Reporters saw not fear,
but wonderful courage. The next day, readers could look
at the front page of the Laramie Boomerang
to see Cooke face this headline: HE DIED GAME.
TODAY IN SLATE
Black people’s disdain for “proper English” and academic achievement is a myth.
Alabama’s Insane New Abortion Law Gives Fetuses Lawyers and Puts Teenage Girls on Trial
Tattoo Parlors Have Become a Great Investment
A Jaw-Dropping Political Ad Aimed at Young Women, Apparently
Big Problems With the Secret Service Were Reported Last Year. Nobody Cared.
How White Boy Rick, a legendary Detroit cocaine dealer, helped the FBI uncover brazen police corruption.
Beautiful, sexy, and fascinatingly mean.