Last Request
You wanted to be mixed
With oxy or cocaine,
Then balled into a bump
And snorted with champagne.
We loved you, but we felt
Your very last request
Would nauseate our souls
And lead to our arrest.
You were a pleasure-seeker.
We weren’t. Or not like you.
We leavened our amusements
With awe of the taboo.
Instead, we had you buried,
And in a stuffy suit.
The crowd could hear you cursing,
Though you were more than mute.
Still, in your jacket pocket
We left a parting gift.
Should Jesus pass you over
It might provide a lift.
Thank God for Ponies
He had a broken heart
And several broken toes,
Which divvied up his pain
And modified his throes.
He thanked the Lord a pony
Had trampled on his shoe
Right after his beloved
Had hollered, “We are through!”
He had no chance to whimper.
He had no chance to cry.
Or if he did, his digits—
Now smithereens—were why.
No medicine is stronger
Than redirection, thus,
Instead of sobbing, “Sarah!”
He’d clear his throat and cuss.
It hurt, but it was helpful.
He leaned upon his crutches
And less upon his feelings,
Which loosened up their clutches.
When next his heart was battered
He knew what course to take:
1 clumsy Shetland pony.
1 prophylactic break.