Death.

Death is greedy.

He thinks this is

His Party

~for Life~

(So naturally)
 
 

He thinks

allllllll

the

Presence

are for him…

He shreds

Bows.

He rips

Tissue

>at times<

He

*tears*

Eyes,

use,

&

wheeze,

bubble-wrapped or not.

–Here I come–

His Party Favors

morbidity

Death rattles

like cascarones

missing the fun—

but full of questionable taste—

–mean-time—

Fun

is busy dba

at the service

putting the

>Pop<

in funeral

…

…

>sometimes even at Pop’s funeral!<

It’s crackers, I tell you,

aPin’ the Trident to the

Tale,

you’re obligated to lose,

though that Rotten Host

is quite likely

to toss

you

in a box,

~at day’s end.

No sense

protestin’

prostratin’

promisin’

or proselytizin’,

since Presence

is–

–listed clearly on the invite, besides

(lost in the male)

It isn’t His

fault

~the Reap’ah~

if you come

empty-handed.

to this fete.

©Karen Robiscoe