perhaps it goes against the woof
of poetic chic
to dare to speak
against that mighty urge
to chicken out – but I am sick
of pouting babies
and their purple shtick.
Euthanasia for the terminally ill, yes
but all the rest, for me, is simply cowardice –
of the overfed, the lazy and the spoiled.
Death is not a poem – it is a denial.
To wish it is spiteful ingratitude personified.