I wrote this morsel on a single rhyme six months before the great event. Presumably I was looking forward to it. What a mistake!
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We all to the grave must dash,
Whip, pizzle and lash,
Some fraught with cash,
Some having made a hash,
Some who in business were brash,
Some who simply went smash.
Some gone bald with a ’tash
Who feared to propose then crash,
Those who never had a pash –
They tried but turned it all to ash:
Ah, passion’s lovely tinkling plash!
(What are wrists for but to slash?)
Some there were who loved to clash,
Some there were who couldna fash,
And some who in a murderous flash
Did something very rash.
There’s some who scribbled balderdash,
And those content to rehash,
Some whose work was a toppling stash
But never much more than trash.
There’s some (ah, grief) who forced Pandora’s cache,
Fracturing the world with a livid gash.
All done, some will wear an angel’s sash
At the Father’s blissful Zion bash,
But many will howl and gnash,
Drowned in the devil’s gall-and-splash.
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© April 2019
