Our neighbour gave us his Bulletins When he had finished with them And my mother put them in the oven Before they could be read.   (Which is why I always remember Those tall pink covers charred.)   My mother said he lived alone In his wooden two-roomed hut— Bed bugs and lice would no doubt lurk In any house like that.   But now I know she baked them Because, as all the mothers knew, Joe Hutchens was certainly not well And what he touched was probably unclean.   He coughed and spat all through the night Blood…