[lit-ideas] SUNDAY POEM

WHIPPERSNAPPERS LISTEN UP

Every passing moment eases me into my grave.
I'm grateful I've never had to jump from one hundred storys up
to escape the flames.
I'm no good at drama.
Give me a joke any day, that I can play.

They say Death is the mother of all values.
Well who the hell's the father? And what's he doing screwing Death?
Jesus that was good. Oh, yes,
and damn if I'm not all out of breath.

It's still Sunday where I sit. This poem is written for Lit-
Ideas, a simple song to prove Erin wrong.

To be young is to be sung,
to be old is to mold.
My song is long and, and, and...oh, shit
I can't remember it.
But that's OK, there'll come the day,
that Erin can't walk the talk,
and with bases loaded she too will balk. And if I am still alive then
I'll borrow her piiiiin and write down the address
of AARP and urge her to confess
her siiiins so carpy.

Mike Geary
Memphis


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