UNTITLED


No more calls every week.
So dead you are, Bubba sheyn,
so very dead, dreaming
of things long forgotten,
finally getting a good night's sleep.

No more belching,
no more prune juice
for your rotten bowels.
In the end a dried-up prune,
sleeping now, resting.
Vey, vey, vey.

I meant to call on Friday,
something came up.
On Saturday you were dead.
Do things often happen that way?
Vey, vey, vey.

1972