Saturday, February 21, 2009

Poetry by Me, Anthony 10

The Death of a Friend

Paul is now dead;
Eats not his bread.
Worms in his head,
Churn to be fed.

Gas bloats his guts;
Ooze muffs his nuts.
Grubs suck his butt,
Down to a scut.

Slime chills his cist;
Stench cuts the mist.
Clenched are his fists;
Spent are his gists.

Paul was my friend;
Now it’s the end.
Sad is my life;
Life and its Strife!

He was to me,
That which was free.
He let me know,
How I should flow.

Paul’s not in sight;
That is my plight.
Even his fame,
Sets low my flame.

25 April 1989

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