I write to inform
you of my demise,
surprise, surprise
the jaundice finally won
My yellow mind didn't run
Don't worry Dear
my love-bottle was near
at my side for the entire ride.

Dear, don't fret, I have to confess
it was my Pa that taught me this.
The flippant beatings,
his caustic consumption
All I request, is you burn me
while I wear
my punk-rock best.
No studs, all leather
a flask of Eight-year
aged Jamison in my
back pocket, and the Murder
City Devils on the juke.

O' Dear you were always there
with those eyes brown loving
that ever color changing hair,
with the hands to calm,
when my stomach had qualms
and the toilet bowl
was my spittoon.

I hope this tome finds you with haste,
for fear my waste skin will grin
horrific, rotted green-yellow tints.
and you'll only see your
baby when he's thin
spent, and dead.

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