Monday, June 09, 2014
A skull smoking a cigarette
Expresses a benign regret,
That having lost its fleshy cover
It's unattractive as a lover,
However debonaire its ties,
However suarve its outer guise,
By which I mean its natty suit,
It can't disguise it's not hirsuit.
It's lost its beard, moustache, and bristle,
It's lost its skin, its flesh, its gristle,
No plump expanse of skin to pinch
No not a tittle, not a sminch,
Recall this, feverish dieting folk,
If you once shift the heavy yolk,
Of fat from off your shoulder you,
May find that you are shifted, too.
For what are we, if just our clothes?
If stripped of homely, adipose.
We are the bone tree and the thin,
Long, lank, dead thing that lives withn in.
Who would be boney as a rake?
Excuse me while I eat this cake.