Sunday, February 22, 2015

third is the one with the hairy chest

I was taught to be second to none, but they say first is the worst.
Take the wheel and drive, son. They gave me keys to a hearse.
In this day in age, it's not about the money you make,
Or the people you touch or the lives that you save,
But how many likes you get on your pictures, so that's why I figure
I'll apply the same idea to my grave.
No sons to list, not husband or mister.
No "he'll be dearly missed," no passage, no scripture.
Just a blown up selfie of me flippin' my finger while grabbin' my dick
Turned half way around so you can plant one on my kisser.
Speaking of plants and of birds,
I'd much rather prefer no place for the flowers to grow or the wallowers to sit.
Instead, do me a favor. On every able acre replace that space with a canister for the haters to spit.
Or you can light a candle and burn it from both angles,
Hold it still as it burns you and try to test your limits.
Once you can't take it any longer,
Let the flames wander and engulf the cemetery and every body buried in it.
Now, that's a candlelight vigil. No need to keep it simple.
You didn't need to bother, but you did. I feel honored.
Bless the son, the holy ghost, and most of all, bless my father.
Turn around and you'll discover my whole death was but a hoax.
"Th-th-th-that's all, folks," as I appear from Heaven's foyer.
I hope you have enjoyed yourselves. You've been Tom Sawyer'd.

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