Canto I
Last
Friday night, late, I slipp'd
right off the plate, kick'd the
bucket. I gave up the
ghost,
came to
ultimate harm, bought (and
paid for) the farm. I (and
let me speak frankly) was
toast.
Drank I
deep from Doom's cup, beds of
daisies push'd up, had my
ticket punch'd, caught the last
ride;
met the
Reaper (he's grim), bit the
Big Galbijjim, with the
fishes slept. (Bluntly: I
died.)
To in-
visible choirs I ap-
pended my lyres; kick'd the
can (sadly, not down the
road);
met my
end, popp'd my clogs; went whole-
hog! to the dogs, crossing
o'er to no mortal a-
bode.
Call my
trip what you will: the Big
Sleep, the Big Chill, that I
pass'd to some vast other
side,
cash'd in
chips, bit the dust -- R.I.-
P.'d if you must. But, while
nixing to shout it or
flout it or tout it, there's
nowt doubt about it: I
died.
Canto II
Dapper
Dante of yore...? He faced
gauntlets galore. Me...? I
can't declare I did as
well:
I was
neither urn-buried nor
quite Aligh'eri'd; 'tis
clear I veer'd nowhere near
Hell.
Virgil...?
Never turn'd up. Were I
on my own...? Yup! (Them three
hell-creatures never show'd,
neether.
BF-
B (Bonne Femme Bea)...? She, too,
made no appea-. Lo, to
tell you the truth (though it
smells less than couth), their A-
WOLism 'queath'd me a
breather.
Canto III
(to be continued)
