Medicine men

I bind the wounds but
poetry bleeds out from me
and
I am dying slow, (slowly)
(which makes it rhyme)

But I never gave a rats ass if things
rhymed or just fell flat,
my life was this
and
though some say
cat’s have nine lives
I’ve had ninety three
and to me
that’s certainly
albeit strange a form of
poetry.

the reckoning will come
when my day down here is done

one of the ‘late’
stood at the pearly gate,
a queue to see who gets a pass?
well
they can kiss my deceased ass

I’ll sit and write on Facebook,
‘Look at this, they won’t let me in’,
post a gif, perhaps a smiley
create some havoc and in a while he
(the guardian of the gate)
might relent

if they and I’m sure they do
recognise talent
they’ll let me through
in that I have great faith.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.