Surely Every Grave Deserves a Flower

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A mockingly macabre poem that I stylized after Poe's ranting forms, but spoken with the horrifyingly entertained manner that is the calling card of Vincent Price.

Submitted: January 11, 2014

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Submitted: January 11, 2014

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Twelve flames of life were snuffed tonight,
And not one will be long mourned.
No tear did glint in hang-moon's light,
Dear executioner for once unscorned.

The first to go was Bobby McGee,
Never a hit with the ladies.
He was caught when defiling deceased,
Said, "I've switched off from girls to babies!"

To follow in kind was Jacob The Blind --
His story is long, I'll be brief --
He was found with a dog and stuffed into a log,
Along with poor Mary O'Keefe!

Third on the list is a man of true terror,
They call him Arnold the Blunderbuss Bearer.
He walked into a church on The Lord's own Sunday,
And shrapnel tore wholey through each bent to pray.

Fourth through the Sixth,
Triplets Jack, Jim, and Johnny.
Forty towns traveled twixt,
Left each one less a mommy.

Seventh's soul's no heaven-sent,
Rather of one's who's mind's bent.
A stolen child-hood, poor Abdul,
Drowns little boys at the side of his pool.

The next two were joined at the hip unfortunately.
Two sisters conjoined, whose heads both thought quite wickedly.
They fancied a man that did not field the part,
So they took what they wanted, but it wasn't his heart.

Haha yes, poor Jaycob, haha...
I hear he's, shall we say, "half the man he used to be!"
Hahaha!  Quite...  Now, shall we?

Tenth on the list was a monstrous sight,
A man of great size, known to always be bitter.
See Martin made a scene at the crossings last night,
Where there is still quite the mess of rent body parts littered.

To stray from that act is Ran Ping Hui,
Who travelled far in search of fame.
Known only now that he should die,
He's the first man to set ten dead children aflame!

Last on the list, number Twelve, humble Cobbler.
Never bragged and rarely rose from his slumber.
But, when faced with a duel he went a tad too far,
And took out the Duke, then everyone at the bar.

Now they're caught, and each one of the lot
Was brought to each cell and then told of Hell.
They were told of their Lord who now is their God,
And his forgiveness -- an unending well.

So they prayed...  And prayed...
Twelve men...  Less days...

And He Himself, He had not much to say,
Not to priest, nor to noble, nor condemned
But evil did sing an eruptious, "Hooray!"
To see men given such as their end.

No one was among the twelve sentenced to death
Who to the living was not this Earth's cancer,
So as to be swift and to spare my own breath,
Let us say these souls were boats with no anchor.
Now cast afloat, each boat's voyage should end,
But theirs were not guided by hands of good men,
Their spirits were free to go as they please.
So they bring with them all death and crippling disease.

And when spirits gather together,
With no Earthly tether,
They will reap from the living
Tears /now/ deemed fit giving.
It will be such a baned thrill,
Next they show for vengeful givings,
When twelve souls mark twelve each,
For each one's unique killings.


© Copyright 2020 Phillip M Roberts. All rights reserved.

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