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Predictions and Prophecies
My funeral. As seen in a premonition. c/c?
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<blockquote data-quote="ThingumBobaEsqe" data-source="post: 2404480" data-attributes="member: 141380"><p>I have a gun. </p><p>I don't have </p><p>to suffer </p><p>this depression.</p><p>Suicide is illegal. </p><p>I've usually </p><p>obeyed the law.</p><p>Well, put my corpse </p><p>in a cell. </p><p></p><p>I made myself </p><p>laugh, a little.</p><p>Good for me.</p><p></p><p>I can visualize</p><p>my own funeral--</p><p>an eighteen gun</p><p>salute because one</p><p>dropped his gun</p><p>in the mud.</p><p>That's better </p><p>than none.</p><p></p><p>I'm still not dead.</p><p>My carefully folded</p><p>flag shows the</p><p>insulting red.</p><p></p><p>The front-end </p><p>loader is the </p><p>guest of honor.</p><p>It has it's own</p><p>morbid salute.</p><p>It's rusted bucket-</p><p>teeth raised high</p><p>used to be</p><p>a lovely orange-</p><p>yellow before </p><p>it cannabalized the</p><p>cold hard ground.</p><p></p><p>The gutteral</p><p>motor has it's own</p><p>sweet scriptural sound--</p><p>an oiled-up dirge,</p><p>and a creaky requiem</p><p>pleasing those </p><p>with long ears.</p><p></p><p>I'm dragged for</p><p>a twenty foot</p><p>procession by my </p><p>wonderful pets</p><p>with little yellow</p><p>bows around their</p><p>uncomfortable necks.</p><p></p><p>They drag me in </p><p>The hole and kick</p><p>In a little dirt</p><p>With their hind legs.</p><p>The weight</p><p>of earth is a</p><p>welcome blanket</p><p>I'll never sleep</p><p>so good at home.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ThingumBobaEsqe, post: 2404480, member: 141380"] I have a gun. I don't have to suffer this depression. Suicide is illegal. I've usually obeyed the law. Well, put my corpse in a cell. I made myself laugh, a little. Good for me. I can visualize my own funeral-- an eighteen gun salute because one dropped his gun in the mud. That's better than none. I'm still not dead. My carefully folded flag shows the insulting red. The front-end loader is the guest of honor. It has it's own morbid salute. It's rusted bucket- teeth raised high used to be a lovely orange- yellow before it cannabalized the cold hard ground. The gutteral motor has it's own sweet scriptural sound-- an oiled-up dirge, and a creaky requiem pleasing those with long ears. I'm dragged for a twenty foot procession by my wonderful pets with little yellow bows around their uncomfortable necks. They drag me in The hole and kick In a little dirt With their hind legs. The weight of earth is a welcome blanket I'll never sleep so good at home. [/QUOTE]
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