A Mortician’s “Somber” Reflections **
Cradle to grave, the destiny of man is one from which there’s no escape Born he was without teeth in his gums, now it is the tooth of time that tears and gnaws.
Aging gracefully? Oh, such fleeting dream; man finds himself a prisoner of old age. Dogs may grow old without showing their age-- some ancient ones still run, but this one lies still.
Look--this shadow of man, once stout, his legs are withered, stiff; the skin hangs loose and saggy like that of a plucked goose; his neck would be too weak to hold the head erect.
Once he was a youth with a full head of hair, but now, one finds only one or two, maybe here or there, not worthy of clippers and shears-- except for those bristles in nose and ear. Well--at last he is beyond all earthly care, yet I serve him by doing what I do best-- Hot diggity dang! Doesn't that guy looks great?
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~~~~ It is a poem’s absolute perfection that can lead to its imperfection. ~~~~
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