This morning, a hearse refused to

let me inno room in his damned lane,

or perhaps, his fare held a higher obligation

a pressing engagement, no doubt.

God knows, the dead can be stiff tippers.


As the driver hauled (cold) ass past,

metallic spikes spun from the center

bore of each twenty-inch rima lofty

investment, surely the remnants of a medieval

flail or a morning star now sparing

death from lifeeither way,

a hell of a lot cheaper than a personalized

license plate: X F K W/ M E.

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