Chicago Poet Arrested for Double Homicide

By Andrew Peerless in News on Mar 23, 2005 3:13PM

This morning, the poets are shaking their heads, as they walk through the sleet and the snow,
For they’ve just heard that one of their brethren so dear was merely an alter ego.
They knew him as “Jameson,” and perked up their ears, as his verses railed hard ‘gainst the war.
ChicagoPoetry.com called him “Poet of the Month,” way back in March of ’04.

Jameson spent his all his days 'mongst the pious, in a church on the city's West Side.
But his friends and admirers could never have guessed that their hero had something to hide:
No saint was this beloved poet, it seems... his past deeds were quite out of order.
Even his name had been fictionalized, for he was born "Norman A. Porter".

Back in 1960, the story begins, in Boston with Porter's first crime:
our villain decided that he'd rob a store, and was having a hell of a time.
In only one moment, though, Porter did change, from burgler to devious felon.
He held up a shotgun and clenched his cold fists, and blew a hole through the shopkeeper's melon.

The authorities caught up to Porter right quick; in prison he found himself mired.
But as he awaited the day of his trial, of prison life Porter soon tired.
He found an accomplice; a plan was developed: "Escape by the light of the day."
They rushed toward the gate, stopping once for good measure, and killing a guard on the way.

The po-pos soon caught up with Porter and charged him; an angry judge pounded his hammer.
He admitted his guilt for the murders so cold, and was promptly sent back to the slammer.
He used his new free time quite well, we admit, as he earned his first college degree.
He also found time to hone his news skills as a writer of fine poetry.

In old '85, our Porter was moved to a lower security prison,
so he just thought he'd let himself out the front door, one day 'fore the sun had arisen.
Into the dust he seemed to have gone; no one could find him at all.
He soon joined the rest of the "Most Wanted" list, up on the post office wall.

We now know exactly where Porter retired, to hide as his mean bones grew older:
he changed up his name and started anew right in our fair 'burg of Big Shoulders.
He tried to go straight, but a few new arrests still found their way into his file:
drunk driving, bounced checks... even more proof of "Jameson's" villainous guile.

It took until Feb. of this year, but at last, authorities connected the dots.
They fastened the cuffs 'round his wrists just this week (effectively ending his plots).
For twenty odd years, this man lived among us and watched as his poety flowered,
but now he just worries: for what will he do when he bends for his soap in the shower?

Thanks for the tip, Bridget!