Death,
She is a comin’
for every man but me,
I am not afraid of her,
Nor is she of me.
.
I’ve danced with her,
and laughed at her,
While jumping from a plane,
I’ve done things
that other beings,
have often called insane.
.
I’ll ride her tails,
through starry trails,
And skitter all through space,
And all the while,
I’ll fly in style,
And chuckle in her face.
.
If she wanted me,
I clearly see,
She’d done already came,
But I’m the thistle,
the fatty gristle,
That Death just couldn’t tame.
.
And since she can’t
or won’t or don’t,
I’d like to change my plea,
I’m still sure ,
I’m not afraid of her,
But I think she is of me.
L.
10/4/95
January 26, 2007 at 9:18 pm
January 26, 2007 at 9:19 pm
Hey, my comment didn’t show up. Might go into the spam filter. Ugh. Oh, well, I tried. Lou, hope you feel better.
January 26, 2007 at 9:24 pm
Nope. Nothing in the spam filter.
Strange. Thanks for trying, though.
🙂
January 30, 2007 at 6:43 pm
I love the concept of being the thistle or fatty gristle that death just doesn’t want. great imagery
January 31, 2007 at 7:42 am
Thanks. I’ve always really thought this was a great description of how I view life and death.
It was one of my better attempts at meter and rhyme, I think.
Of course, I might be biased…
🙂