Death Is Sick and Tired
Death is sick and tired of dying
and yet he wakes up at the crack of dawn
and put's on his noose necktie
and stiches his broken, beating and battered heart
and looks in the mirror,
the mirror breaks in half
bringing down his self-esteem
and he goes out from 8 to 5
and loves his job,
but he lights a cigarette
and listens to the poet in the corner
talk of suicide in metaphor
and drags out laughing
as he takes another soul in his pocket,
leave the robots to work their fingers to the bone
and take the ones that love,
that like,
that feel their hearts beat
that listen and think
because who needs those zombies walking around.
Death has so much poetry
and art that it is the muse for every dead and dying poet
out there in the world.
We are all living but dying at the same time
as time clicks and ticks away and away it goes
to a steel room in Heaven
God looks down and laughs at the jokes he has created,
and Death get's his paycheck for a day's hard work
and we my friends, the clowns and jokers,
the poets and artist
are all just ants
under a magnifying glass...
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