Do not talk to me, I could care less. I’d rather slip a noose round my neck, A gun would be too much of a mess. And besides, there’s more fun in being alive. So for now I keep my mind in check, And I sleep a little less. James slips a noose around my neck.
It will be written long, when Nature takes her own and quenches life's flame, when all the sadness has been noted and versed, packaged as final words, having ******* with regret or discourse with nostalgia. The taming of the mortal coil breeds the Last Poem.