Death Is A Mother

Death is a mother

The most covetous of all

She has a plate at her table

Come spring or come fall


She is kind to some

To others, strict and stern

And you do as she says

A fact that you shall learn


Death is the mother

To life, and rightly so

And whenever she beckons

Into her arms, we must go


The Jester

Look as he lies, quiet and serene
Eyes shut with that queer smile
Now, troubles, where have you been?
Can you no longer trouble this man awhile?

He lies staring through lids
Shut at the wise old sky
Surrounded by wreaths and orchids
But their beauty trouble not his eye

Through watery curtains
They dismay at his calm
In grey and dark attire and sequins
Heavy glasses and quiet psalm

They say to me “do not stir
Do not make a sound for he rests”
My reply is a hearty sneer
For surely from the grave, he jests

This is a man, just deceased
He has gone to be with his maker
He is no more within this
Hunk of meat and bone and blubber

Yet behind watery curtains
And hats with beautiful feathered crests
They hush me behind those sequins
But he, from beyond the grave, jests