by Julia Griffin

It’s time, dear kin, to prove how much
You relatively merit,
For such as August shows me, such
Will be what you inherit.

September’s waiting at the door:
I hear its heavy breathing;
So, if you’d rather not be poor,
Make nice while I’m bequeathing.

Although my main concern’s my soul,
(Assume that a priori),
A will, I find, does cheer the whole
Memento mori story.