Thursday, March 09, 2017

unsolicited

Death was in a tearing hurry
His forehead sewn with lines of worry
His chest made a fearful gasping sound
As his feet sprinted above the ground
So I stopped him quick and gently said
Who is the poor sod s’pposed to be dead?
The Reaper caught his breath, exhaled
But then his sweaty red face paled
His eyes didn’t meet mine as he replied
Woe, you’re the one who has died.

ram cobain

(Pic courtesy Google)

No comments: