A Poet’s Epitaph
He brushed his teeth
with a hacksaw until
he had no smile.
Then drove his buggy
with a tiny whip until
he’d walked a mile.
There were other things
he might have done to
dust his hands of sense.
But that he felt was
quite enough to gain
eternal recompense.
May God rest his pen
‘neath winged Seraphim
I love the song in this. Plus, the first stanza will stay with me for some time! I hope you are well… more poems please! Benjamin
And here is where his pen rests:
(though I sometimes dance to this).
With such a stunning graphic and stimulating music, the poor pen’s probably more often erect than at rest. (“Down pen. Down boy. Remember you’re supposed to be dead!”)
Oh, William :-)))) I love you!
wonderful pace and that hacksaw thing is a deal.