Deathly Grey


When I’m lying six feet under,
when I’m feeding little worms.
Making good my rendezvouz,
with bacteria and germs.
Where it’s dark,
when it’s day.
Deathly silent.
Deathly grey.

Maybe you’ll come to visit,
Maybe you’ll shed a tear.
Arrange a wreath of flowers,
Or share with me your beer.
Mumble quiet
words my way.
Deathly silent.
Deathly grey.

©21.2.2014 Andrew Robert Chapman


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