I had a poem in my mind
but now it’s gone and I can’t find
the words expressive of my mood.
So now I merely sit and brood
upon unwanted thoughts of loss,
incumbent on this page of dross
to lift the spirit of the wise,
with whom I feel no morbid ties
and thus I scribble in the gloom
composing couplets full of doom,
to cast my demon in the flames,
unwilling yet to call him names.
So nameless and unloved he cries,
upon his master, lord of flies,
while I yet sit and watch his plight,
though in his fate I don’t delight
but relish freedom from his curse,
while someone once more calls out,
Nurse!
Never let it e'er be said
that I ain’t right inside my head,
for though I like to have a laugh,
of late my chuckle seems a scarf
to comfort, if not yet to stifle,
madness caught from sherry trifle.
Beware then creeping, addled verse,
for you'll just end up in a hearse
and like me beat upon the lid,
your cries for aid remaining hid
from any who might offer aid,
without requirement to be paid.
Consigned to graveyard, somewhat early,
not yet dead but feeling surly,
(understandably I think,
will no one offer me a drink?)
A double scotch is what I crave,
as not yet ready for my grave,
they have me cruelly boxed and shrouded
in a cell which seems quite crowded,
though the walls are nicely white
my jacket feels a bit too tight.
Your honour,
inhumation for the living
ain’t advice you should be giving,
it’s not as though I’m any threat,
so let me go without regret,
honest, honest, honest…
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Originally Posted by Hawkman
