Overheard

A thug overhears, shrugs,
'What's in this for me? '

A prig overhears, swears,
'I'll tell all, I will'.

A lady, to the manor born, says
'But, darling, why say anything at all? '

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Almost An Epitaph 3

From his sacerdotal bed
Looking Death full in the eye
(Who only smiled in reply)
A bishop, in succumbing, said
'Despite, O Death, our best surmise
You always come as a surprise.'

poem by Morgan Michaels
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133

Believing you won't
get cancer if you smoke
is one delusion;
believing you won't
if you don't's another;
the world is working
to eliminate chance
and in so-doing
insures accident.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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126

Told we are right
we are highly inclined to believe it;
told another is wrong
we are equally so-inclined:
the ego picks and chooses
and getting a bad deal
trades in old cards for new.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Almost An Epitaph 4

Ashamed of stealing Zena's breath
Panic seized the heart of Death
Who, fingers shaking as he wrote,
Carefully composed a note
Then scattered valiums beside
To make it seem like suicide.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Paranoia

is what besets
the man who
losing one glove
apiece from two
identical pair
is ready to bet
good money
the remaining two
won't make a set
when the chance they will
is actually fifty-fifty.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Multiple Choice

One answer only, please

1) History is a record of the best in human affairs
2) History is a record of the worst in human affairs
3) History is neither
4) History is both
5) All of the above

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Sappho

Really, I felt like Scheherazade or somebody.
'Tell me another stary', said the Shah.
'How was I to deal with this prickliest of characters?
'Do you have any interesting tatoos? ', I asked.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Almost An Epitaph 2

Seeking daisies for her chain
Jane bestrode an adder's bed-
Arriving promptly on the scene
Death pronounced her duly dead.
'Well done, my pet, ' he commented
and stroked the adder's scaley head.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Almost An Epitaph 7

Battling so hard for Jeff
Aching and exhausted, Death
Sat on a rock, and, out of breath,
Mopped his face with a handkerchief
Before he tossed the battered corse
Resplendent, o'er his boney horse.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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