Saturday, October 22, 2011

Perfect Copy



Stretched across the tiles,
The copy of the window.
Modigliani art.


'IF I should die think only this of me.....'
Yes, so wrote Rupert Brooke in reverie.
But I think we should change the 'If' to 'When',
Unless, of course, you're not like other men!
There's no point having a little chortle,
Laughing and saying 'Hang on! I'm immortal!'
It's pretty certain you'll turn up your toes
And go the way that everybody goes!
If Einstein, with a brain excelling yours,
With cleverness oozing out of all his pores,
Couldn't work out a way to stay alive,
What makes you think that you will still survive?
No, the word is 'When'; accept the fact
And do not dream that you will stay intact!
'Think ONLY this of me......'. Why just one thought?
I want the world to be unhinged, distraught!
I want my closest friends to meditate
Daily upon my death and mark the date
With solemn thoughts and pleasant reveries,
hundred thousand lovely memories!
Of course, I understand that wont occur;
They'll simply pause and then respond 'Oh....her!'
They'll carry-on as though I never was
And that thought really angers me, because
Why should anything at all, on earth, go on
If the reason for its being...... me...... has gone?
Rupert had a reason for his lines;
He was off to battle....bullets, tanks and mines.
He was going to an awful living hell,
Where death could come with any passing shell.
His poem was intensely patriotic;
Whereas, for us, such words are idiotic.
There is no 'If'; my death is 'When' and certain.
It's 'coming, ready or not', that final curtain.
Why should I quibble, live on hope or doubt it?
The only thing to do is laugh about it!

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