Skull

A younger person than I has died.

Is it time I stepped aside?

Also, someone older has passed away.

Perhaps I am here to stay.

Some painting whose reproduction I looked at when young shows a man on whose desk lies a human skull.

I asked my mother, why?

She said, to remind you you will die.

Or of death itself, perhaps the glass is half full. Who is dead?

Jethro Tull.

Need I say more?

I don’t want to go on and on and bore.

Perhaps I’ll die when I run out of juice.

I ask myself, was I ever any use?

Mere utilitarianism, being useful is not what I am.

I hope I don’t drive God to say damn.

But enough of God and death and dead men’s bones.

I am on Earth to answer telephones.

The Muse calls frequently to whisper in my ear.

That’s my raison d’etre, why I’m here.

It gives me satisfaction to write this down.

Servant of the Muse, her helpless clown.

I aim to please, to show, to teach and so much more.

While I am alive I take the floor.

When words fail me, then I guess I’ll go.

Meanwhile play on, sing on holy show.

Tich Ennis

2nd July, 2016

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