Bob Dylan – Mayor of This Mortal Coil

We all die and the only thing not to know is how:
Some ‘cos they eat too much cow.
Some ‘cos they smoke.
Some ‘cos they don’t joke.

We all go to the undertakers:
Some ‘cos they’re unlucky overtakers.
Some ‘cos they’re sinking death rowers.
Some ‘cos they’re drowning maritime blowers.

We all get our card marked and have to punch it:
Some ‘cos they get sick.
Some ‘cos they’re alcoholic.
Some ‘cos they give up the ghost and the spirit.

We all curl up our tootsies and push up daisies:
Some ‘cos they freeze.
Some ‘cos they wheeze.
Some ‘cos they’re 1352-plagued with a sneeze.

We all kick the bucket and lay in a ‘coffin’:
Some ‘cos they fight cancer but give in.
Some ‘cos they end it all in a spin
not knowing where to begin.

We all meet our deliverer:
Some ‘cos they meet their killer.
Some ‘cos they die for someone like Hitler.
Some ‘cos they’re so careless they have no idea.

We all leave this mortal coil:
Some ‘cos there’s too much toil.
Some ‘cos they’re buried in soil.
Some ‘cos they get a boil.

We all cop it and die:
Some ‘cos they fry.
Some ‘cos they told a lie
and some ‘cos there’s no knowing why.

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook. Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic. Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.

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