And When I've Gone

Here was he set to flame, a big hash And half-wit, now consigned to grey ash Spare tears, all the ho-hum, Gone hast he as had come, Lifetime of fruits to fetch, right with rash! If man's born to burn, smoulder all life— Let this fire of last pyre be no strife. Death's to lose the dross left, Life's remnant, warp with weft, And whatso spared be by surgeon's knife. ______________________________________________________ These two limericks are self epithets. And my wish is expressed in the second: Let a surgeon take away whatso he deems fit for medical use. ______________________________________________________ Musings | 04.11.11 |