The Working Poem

Nauseated by pain

in my right leg

walking becomes a danger

for the children of the future.

God could you be more dramatic?

Possibly,

depends on what kind of mood

the moon is in.

Try.

Well,

when my time comes around

please lay me down

in the cold dark earth.

But that doesn’t matter does it.

No it doesn’t.

Why?

Graves can’t hold

my body down

I’ll crawl back home.

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