Dark Lord Darth Sarsen catches up with his spleen in this latest offering from the ramblers club / 26 January 2011
My Morbid Spleen
The stars looked beautiful tonight;
but for some strange reason the dead man
at the bus stop came to mind again
I keep seeing myself giving him a gentle nudge;
but the lemons in his fruit machine had
stuck just out of sight.
And the woman next to me screamed like an
ambulance up my arse;
while the girl (so strangely green) to
one side muttered "cool" and snapped a
picture on her phone.
I heard the coroner had said his wife hadn't
long been taken by her maker,
and they'd buried her in the silks of
self pity befitting her latter years.
My neighbour's dad had a
blood slug go from his leg to
his lung, you know.
He went sat in his favourite armchair,
clutching his favourite knife and a
runner bean he'd been topping and tailing;
until he was topped and tailed,
and wedged in a long case, like the
fish on the wall of The Frog and Nightgown.
But I'm not sure why I'm wending down the
darkly road -
guess it's my morbid spleen that's
seen me plummet from the starry night to
that Darth Vader death rattle,
waiting for the 23 to Cheam.