My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass

We linger longest over John

Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags

...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed

No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”

Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--

mostly
sorta

...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...

******* crazy-- John!

He was enough for one day at a time
like when

he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect

"Get off my ******' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!

He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”

My phone is set to speed dial
911
__

“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”

How we miss him now
How quiet

GIRL:
Sorry darling, I hadda put a poem out there.... Yes, indeed, I have read your other emails. I would like to respond but I have got to make a quick sandwich first and get some hangout/jammies on.
MAN::
what color ******* u wear with jammies
GIRL:
today I have on bikini ******* that are white w little blue flowers. I will go commando in my jammies ....
MAN:
hot both ways I am sure
GIRL:
what about you? what do you have on?
MAN:
a very large smile
Girl:
Nice. Very nice.

Time Machine

  Sweet sunshine spreads across your bed as you breath, breathe scented with Playdoh and black raspberries from the front yard. I watch your chest rise, fall, rise, fall.
“There’s my boy. Time to get up. Rise and Shine.”
That grin, before you even open your big blue eyes, those windows to your soul, those orbs that reflect my own face back to me.
the softness of your young skin, freckled from long summer days.
Here we are content in this solitary moment.
I have a desire to dive head first into a black hole to stop time.
Growing up means girlfriends, heartache, peer pressure...*** ( frankly I am not ready to have that conversation)
Growing up means getting closer to the time when you won’t really need me anymore. It means understanding that the world  out there has teeth...
Then you will get your driver’s license, freewill.
I want to dive head first into that black hole to stop time so maybe we can hold onto this moment forever.

At bedtime last night you confessed you are scared of the those dark pockets in your room.
“What are YOU afraid of, Mom?”
I think I said fire, spiders. it was a lie.
I couldn’t bare to tell you about the funeral today.  You would ask the question that doesn’t have an answer:  Why was he driving so fast, Mom? And I would have to admit that I don’t have the answers this time.
Telling you would be like telling the moth about the flame, crushing your own dreams before you could even imagine them. I can’t tell you what it was like to watch his friends huddled in a circle, holding each other up to keep from throwing themselves into the grave beside him.
Past the circle, stood the body of his mother. Only her body. Her mind wasn’t there, It couldn’t have been. Because I am a mom. I have you, my boy and I know.I know that ****** created a vacuum for her hopelessness. Otherwise she would be ripping out her hair, screaming, clawing, jumping in the casket with the body, trying to forget that his lifeless image is now scorched into her brain for eternity.
That brain works like a time machine, gears turning, visiting the day at the ocean when he flew his first kite, seeing him in the photo next to his first bike, his first missing tooth, his first school dance, his first crush, his first basketball game,  his first car...   Memories upon memories turning brown like old photographs.  Her time machine now searches for the memory of his last dinner at home, his last words on the phone, his last basketball game, his last breath....
My boy, I hope I never need that time machine. But that black hole will not keep you here with me in this moment, young and innocent. That biggest fear you asked about last night.... is losing you forever, my boy.
Stay alive. Erase all other words of wisdom ever parted from my lips. I don’t really care if you use the word “ain’t”. I will cover my ears. Leave your jammies on the floor, forget to wash your face, leave your bike in the rain, play baseball instead of walking the dog, lie about finishing that essay, come home past curfew because it took awhile to gather the courage to kiss her. I won’t be mad. You will be in this world and I can look into your bright eyes again tomorrow...without that **** time machine.

I tried to write a lullaby
With a 70's theme of sorts
Kids drinking Sunny "D" in their jammies
Girls in Mindy, Boys in Mork

But that's as far as I could get
This dried up crinkly brain stays in a daze
So I picked up the phone, dialed up some friends
In hopes of a friendly Friday night game of charades

Of course Sylvester brought his Ouija board
He thinks with the other side he's in tune
I hate to break it to Houdini here
But I think he's inhaled to many fumes

My friends say that I'm just paranoid
Like a jester without a court
So I turn and apologize to Sylvester
Okay dude, pull out the board

We place our fingers on the Doohickey
Or is that the Thingamajig
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum, is all that it spells
As Sylvester has a fit

He knocks the game table over
And screams it's that movie, The Shining all over again
This is ****** spelled backwards people
As the smell of the dead blows in on the wind

In all of the dark spirit world excitement
I think I even ***'d myself
I suggest in a manly way with a wet spot on the front of my Bell Bottom jeans
That we put the Ouija board back up on the shelf

I really wasn't expecting an evening
Of doom and gloom and tombs and such
I think I'll go back to writing that 70's lullaby
If you don't mind...thank you very much

Fires burn all night,
it's been so long,
since we've all seen one another,

As dancing flames lick the air,
pulling an all nighter,
a willing sacrifice,
is offered,
to the heating God,
a Soapstone fireplace,
made locally,

In her lovely sturdy black cast iron,
she's rugged that baby,
cooking everything perfectly,
in the kitchen,
& heating everything else in the house,
to perfection too,

Warmed hearts beat,

A single tear falls,
as we survived the day,
a load off my mind,
some relief from the grind,

Again,
I'm soooo,
satiated,
from my,
middle Eastern dinner,
sharing the love,
& the brilliant composition,

WOW I hear -
A-mazing chef, truly,

Ahhhh t'was nothing really,
but thank ya,
emmm...
roasted root veggies,
prepared,
with a lovely maple glaze,
spicy and sweet,
but really such a filling treat,

A cherry glazed ham,
arugula, herb & green salad,
homemade oat rolls with fresh Vermont butter,
melted,

Yum,

I'm a piece of Vermont,
my capable hands,
handed down to me,
making Wintry
M A G I C
in your kitchen,
cuz' I'm just a guest tonight,
in this house anyway,

The twinkle lights in the room,
look just like dragonflies to me,
gold and orange shining,
so glad they  stopped in,
everyone,
all day,

Good people,
good food,
good times,

GREAT memories,

It must be 80 degrees in here,

I'm roasting in this place,

As a lone candle is left flickering,
into a small mountain of wax,
as it is dripping down the side,
permanently changing the mantel,

My alter,
just for you,
is adorned with crystals & stones,
as I hold a crucifix & bones,

I pray another day like this,
folded hands don't lie,
early till late,
finally a reprieve,
I try to believe,

As tired grateful hands and bellies,
my "fandamnly"
are all in jammies,
& tucked in tight,
love you all I say goodnight,
sweeeet dreams sweet poets,

All in flannel and the like
as our boots & mitts dry out,

A busy fire,
is doing so much,
a fan is whirring,
all are,
resting so peacefully,
a mother's true joy,
a lover, & a friend,
on whom you can depend,

I love you all so very much,

I miss you too,

I'm watching that beautiful man sleep,
and snore so low,
watch him breathe again,
I say please don't go,

As the heavy wet snow,
blankets these Green mountains,
covering my world tonight,
it cleans the sins of the day,
& yesterday,
wash us clean,
in that pure white,

Low music,
is playing,
into the still,
it was left on,
I remember it all with you,
& I probably always will,
cheers my love,
wherever you are,
so very very far above,

My head is down on a soft pillow,
warm sheets and blankets,

As I set to see you again,
in my dreams,

Gently closing my eyelids,
you bid me adieu,
 again I'm reminded,
reminded of you,

Yup,
pulling an all nighter with your memory again,

As I,
just,
          d
              r
                 i
                  f
                     t
                     .
                       .
                          .
                             .
                               .          
    
Cherie Nolan © 2016

Big gulp of porridge
Just for designated jammies
just before the bus stops,
just as long as there's no homework.

Long shot across town
Just 'cause cops are special,
just when the wife was yappin'
just one too many drinks again.

Deep breath underwater
just to wake up a bit,
just to celebrate the submarine,
just as the room runs out of air.

Heartache.
It's more than an evening or weekend
Of ice cream and fine chocolate,
When listening to love songs,
Or watching rom coms on the couch
In jammies--

It's in all those nights of crying
While clutching at your pillow,
Begging for some semblance of solace.

It's in waking walking wandering wondering.
While looking down at your chest,
In every other even odd moment of consciousness
To check if the hole in your heart
Is finally visible from the outside.

It's that deep breath inhaled;
To counter the effects of the memories he gave,
That enables you to breathe again,
And the rapid blinking that keeps your eyes dry--
For just a little longer...

It's in re-building that wall.
Remember the wall? The one you tore down
To let him in?
Only, it's a shade darker than the last time.

Heartache is that deep, bottomless
Feeling of drowning
In misery and rejection
From the one person
You singled out from the crowd.
It's that overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia;
Which tells you,
'If you're not with him,
You'll go celibate!'

It's that ghost of a kiss,
That threatens to be the death of you;
It haunts your lips in your pale reality.
It's that hollow heart
That longs for his warmth, his arms
Those dreams of his beating heart next to yours;
Helping you regenerate
Only to be broken with sunrise, in emptiness.
When those unforgiving rays heat up everything,
But you're still freezing...

It's that poisoned apple you ate;
It runs in your veins.
Refusing to be digested,
Causing that overbearing chronic ache
That makes you want to scream out
In pure agony--
Making you wish,
*'If only he stayed!'

“Important message from Pioneer credit to cover Inc. my name is Larry Stevens requires a visor is communication is from a debt collection company is attempt to collect a debt and information jammies purpose please call my office at 1-888-287-4431 please use reference 125-** to get my name is Larry Stevens please call me back at 1-888-287-4431 thanks…”

No porch yet;  
just green grass hills for miles,
glass skies filled to the brim  
with clouds . 
No time to the day on this weekend;  
just existence. 
Long dirt roads smell of tobacco,  
old barns perfect for hide and seek,  
hours outside lost and found  
on our two acre piece of inheritance     
No porch yet  
crying for us to keep inside  
and grow up; 
taking away my youth.     
Woods with thick clay dirt   
hit my face— “on accident Mom…”   
I can breathe in my youth again  
before the trees that shelter me now  
are replaced by shingles and wood.     
That ***** fun of my youth  
cleansed my pores 
in big murky ponds  
my youthful spirit may very soon be pushed away,  
by a porch, built for parties.     
Until that time   
it was the sunsets that pushed me inside  
to the smell of dad’s spaghetti;   
variations of the same basic recipe.   
I saw smiles and laughter  
Dishes cleaned as we were bathed. 
Bathtub bubbles rained puddles on the floor.  
Wet and naked laps around the house  
“ANDREA LEAH! Get your naked **** back here
and get your jammies on!”  
Never had time to dry off completely  
just wanted to dance around.      
Damp bodies eventually squeezed into   
barbie doll underwear and pink frilly nightgowns.  
A rock in the big comfy recliner-   
inescapable,   
the day is going to end  
before the stars shine bright   
against the green grass and black night sky.  
Luckily, there is no porch yet.

I want to wake up when I want
And then slowly get to my feet.
I want to have a breakfast
That is very much like a treat.
I want to dawdle over my coffee
And take lazy, leisurely stock.
And, I want to do all of this
Without waking to a clock.

For I hate that awful buzzing
That it takes to shake me awake.
I find the racket ruins dreams
And is too much for me to take.
I want to sit where late morning
Sends its sweet shine in on me
While I sup and sip and dine
Like a member of royalty.

Oh, I am not so snooty myself
That I don’t prepare this repast
With my own two clever hands
And at that, amazingly fast.
It’s almost like my hands want
To hide from my waking mind
That the meal I am having is not
Not the made by Ritz-Carlton kind.

I want to waken to cognizance
In a particularly decadent way.
I find it totally disgusting to
Rush madly into any given day.
I’d sit in smoking jacket and slippers
If I had such magazine attire.
And if it were chilly upon rising
I would magically manifest a fire.

Of course I don’t have a fireplace
To go right along with plain jammies
So instead of brocade robes and such
I very short of mystical whammies.
I can’t witch up this storybook stuff
Of class A, high-class pomposity.
But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t wish
To have it all appear before me.

A Tornado Coming In A Poor Neighborhood

What did you find out?  I asked
my wife.  She said nothing.  I said
it hasn’t stormed.  She spoke it
does not matter.  The TV is not
working.  Must be another storm
I said.  The sky was darkening
quickly although it took a half hour
for everything to get thoroughly
black.  Booms came from the west.
Big Jack from across the street

called and said I should beware.
A tornado was coming.  I asked
from where.  He said he did not
know, and that I should go down
the basement.  I told Jack I had
none.  He said what.  I hung up.
I told my wife to be ready to get
under the bed.  She said where
was that.  I said the one in our
bedroom.  She said oh and got her

jammies on.  I told her not to moan
or worry, that we would be fine.
From next door kids started to yell
and say no school.  Arthur Lang came
over and wanted my gun.  I said Art
I sold it.  He said that was stupid.  For
some reason I closed my garage door.  
I asked my wife to tell the kids if I
died that I did love them an awful lot
even if I was black and ugly poor.

Daniel Gallik

The older I am
The older I get
Finding myself doing the same
Thing, again and again

Nothing in life
Ever much changes
I'm so predictable
But then you knew I would say this

It all has to do
With my attitude
But then again
This tidbit you knew

I wake in the mornings
Shower and shave
The very same way
I do every day

I put on my trousers
One leg at a time
First with the left
Then with the right

Same with my shoes
I follow suit
First with the left
Well, you know what I do

A bowl of Cheerios
Every morning for breakfast
I've done this before
So you know that I've got this

After all that
I let the cat out the back
Where he starts the first of many
Afternoon naps

Down on the corner
By 8:05
And just like I am
The bus is always on time

I'm predictable
In all I do and say
Just looking at me
Gives that away

I get to the office
Sit down at my desk
And just like the cat
All day I nap

Back at the corner
By 5:05
Here comes the bus
Still right on time

Make it back home
Let the cat in
Sit down to dinner
Me and my feline friend

Predictable
In all that I do
My trouser routine
Works for my jammies too

Exactly at 9
I'm tucked into bed
So I'm fresh in the morning
To do it all over again

I'd tell you different
But won't play you the fool
Cause we all know that I am
Predictable

Grief rides with me  
wherever I go,
whether I walk
around the house
in my jammies,
read a poem
to a group
of strangers,
or watch a flower bud
burst open-
each breath knows
what use to be
will not come back.

But What About the Dog?

Bedtime is a poem written with love:
You change into your jammies at 8 o’clock
You wash your hands and face, you brush your teeth
You kneel beside your bed and say your prayers

And then the dog leaps up onto your pillow
And then your mother says the dog can’t stay
And then you plead, and doggie looks so sad
And then your mother sighs and says, “All right,

“But only for tonight,” then kisses you

(but not the dog)

Childhood is a poem written with love

Fresh shower and a shave
First one I've had in days
Clean pressed jammies, and new sheets
Off to meet the girl of my dreams

I pull down tight on the shades
Hoping against hope I'm not running late
We get together most Saturday nights
When I pull up the covers and shut out the lights

I often wonder where we'll go
As neither of us ever really knows
Where the mind travels in its comatose state
Or where dream girls like to go on dates

We might end up at some fancy dance
Or a beach somewhere in the South of France
It all depends on her or is that depends on me
When I'm out cold with the girl of my dreams

Sometimes I play her hero well
But not that super if the truth I must tell
Slowing moving as if in a dream
Most Saturday nights in my sleep

Over time she has never changed
In fact even I look pretty much the same
Whenever we have a chance to meet
Out on a date with the girl of my dreams

My worthy adversaries across the dais would have you believe
That, having fashioned mankind in His own image
And, what’s more, sacrificed His own son
For the sole purpose of its collective salvation,
Our Maker would, in effect,
Simply shrug his shoulders and send it on its merry way.
Free to fall, those arguing the negative will tell you.
Ah, but there’s more than that: not only do they insist
That The Creator has for all intents and purposes abandoned us,
But has allowed an equally powerful and diametrically opposed force
To set up shop on his watch.  
I would ask them--what drabble of Scripture,
What logical premise would you cite to support such madness?

But surely, my learned opponents would purr,
(Oh, every bit as sly as devils themselves!)
You would not deny the existence of evil in this world.  
Morons! Can it somehow be possible
That you are completely ignorant of the work of Augustine?  
Tell me, after you finish your warm milk
And button up your snuggly jammies,
When you flick off the light switch, does the dark come out?
Or is your grasp of physics and philosophy equally inadequate?

I suppose, in a last, desperate attempt to buttress their arguments,
The supporters of the opposite position
Will contend my presence in this lecture hall
Is necessary and sufficient  for their argument to carry the day.
I categorically deny the supposition!
I do not exist, nor can I!  
Hang your forensic skills on that,
You bunch of ******* saintly *******.

My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.

But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.

She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.

But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.

And you ask me why I have cared for so very long..
why I love you the way that I do--
down on the floor, (arms raised  like a little child)
asking me to hold you. <3

And late at night,  fully spent
from the amount of work that it takes
      just,  to survive another day, trying.   crying
      on the edge of the bed, (arms raised  like a little child)

      wanting me to help you put those warm,
                                            flannel-jammies on.


When your heart barely beats anymore  its
own life-giving pulse,  and your lungs are no longer able to find air
      You turn towards me,
      and ask me to breathe in to you--


                                         arms raised.. 

                  like a beautiful, little child.

*******, and you, and you
I hate myself and they hate me too
I'm through, I'm through, I'm though
This that low girl ****** anthem
We turn up, say **** the ransom

This that low girl ****** anthem
We turn up, say **** the ransom
This that no more Gucci tag
this low girl is a phantom
This that dream of suicide
That demon at your bedside
I swear I hat it man
But what do I do ever night

That drown in your own music
Just to stay away from the clique
All my friends are getting boring
They're all dumb, yeah they go stupid
This that sitting in my jammies just so I can be secluded
This poem ain't diluted
One more line, I'm feeling broken

*******, and you, and you
I hate myself and they hate me too
I'm through, I'm through, I'm though
This that low girl ****** anthem
We turn up, say **** the ransom

This that low girl ****** two-step
They can't short me, got nothing left
This that drown me in the ocean
They don't care, I've been no fun
Out of care and self-aware
Yeah, that's my slogan
This that "Anyone there"?
I'm the emo chick whos broken

This that drown in your own music
Just to stay away from the clique
All my friends are getting boring
They're all dumb, yeah they go stupid
This that sitting in my jammies just so I can be secluded
This poem ain't diluted
One more line, I'm feeling broken

*******, and you, and you
I hate myself and they hate me too
I'm through, I'm through, I'm though
This that low girl ****** anthem
We turn up, say **** the ransom

This that drown in your own music
Just to stay away from the clique
All my friends are getting boring
They're all dumb, yeah they go stupid
This that drown in your own music
Just to stay away from the clique
All my friends are getting boring
They're all dumb, yeah they go stupid
They go stupid, they go stupid, they go-
And you expect me to change? *******!

*******, and you, and you
I hate myself and they hate me too
I'm through, I'm through, I'm though
This that low girl ****** anthem
We turn up, say **** the ransom
*******, and you, and you
I hate myself and they hate me too
I'm through, I'm through, I'm though
This that low girl ****** anthem
We turn up, say **** the ransom

Not that he was light on his feet before,
But Twinkle doesn’t dance anymore.
He doesn’t talk a lot, and when he does
It’s jumbled and mumbled, we make a fuss
Trying to understand just what he means
Up/down, left/right, yes/no, joggers/jeans
When once he’d clear a buffet in a blink
He won’t eat his lunch, let alone drink.
He made mowing look easy, I struggle
And instead of him I’m the one the dog cuddles.
As wobbly as me on ten pints or more
Inevitably we’d both end on the floor
Always clean shaven has turned awry
With a full blown beard it’s another guy
Sat watching the same **** telly
New fancy chair and slightly smaller belly.
Twinkle gets grumpy when there’s a  cannula to insert,
Doesn’t trust the nurse when she said it wouldn’t hurt.
Breathing was easy for Twinkle last year
But not so now, it’s why we’re here
Waiting for a bed in a place where there’s plenty,
The problem is that none of them are empty.
Doctors a-plenty and many nurses too,
The only thing lacking is something to do.
In Game of Thrones jammies he sits in his chair,
He says he’s hot rather be in underwear
Or anywhere I think, just not on this ward
As everyone here is terminally bored.

Crystal **** and Mountain Dew
You got me and I got you
Whoa boy
Whoa girl

Sitting around
Nothing to do
Who needs glue
When I got you
Whoa boy
Whoa girl

You wear jammies
I wear jeans
When we go shopping
at our Hy-Vee
Whoa boy
Whoa girl

We had our jobs
Health insurance, too
Now they’re gone
What do you do?
Whoa
Whoa

3 bars closed,
We’re down to one
But that’s okay
Cause I got you
Whoa boy
Whoa girl

Winter’s coming
It’s getting dark
Propane’s empty
The car won’t start
Whoa boy
Whoa girl

Copyright © 2019 by Zane Safrit. All rights reserved.

My emotions are troubling
They have me kicking my bucket list
They have me posting an arrest because there were signs of struggling
I swear one more morning of this icy grey weather
Will have me peeling off my eyelids and wearing them as leather
But just before my tragic fall I'll plot out an agenda
Set up a plastic table with my cell phone in the center
And start drafting out a list of all the things that I'd do better

I'd stumble to the garden and put up a black tent
Call it an apartment and start charging people rent
Between reality and insanity, I'm sitting comfortably on the fence
Though my garden tent would only get garden rats as tenants

I'd open up a business bank account and only save up twenty five cents
Blow it all on my garden rats and starting pretending that we're friends
Pretend the rodents were Pokémon and are the newest trend
But man I'd be lying if I say that I'd pretend

Second on the list I'd give up clothing in general
Stop doing the laundry and hang myself in the pegholds
Start lazing around Saturdays in the jammies I was born in
I'd be a lonely conversationalist
But I bet the neighbors would be talking

Thirdly on this sturdy list of packaged up fantasies
I'd take this heart to the bakery and have a cake made of half of it
Sell myself at a bake sale with biscuits and poppy seeds
Decorate my face with chocolate and cherries and margarine
To top myself off I'll throw in coffee at half price
But only because the rats are starving and ate from the cake thrice

Forthly, I dont think I'll write a list before the end of my life
Besides I have an ichy head and think I might die of lice
So as karma comes around I'll take her sound advice
Before I die I'll act real nice so I don't become a poltergeist