Death is but a chap in a rented tuxedo

Death is but a Chap in a Rented Tuxedo

Death’s just around the corner
of ninth and twenty-second;
swearing at the rain,
he straightens his comb-over,
summons a cigarette
-lit-
from the depths of hell,
which hangs from his chapped lips
like a limp dick.
He bawls a fist at the rain;
the thumb and ring finger
on his left hand
sink away into his skull;
he’s pretending to inhale (smoking kills),
massages his temples,
for there,
beyond his own reflection
in the coffee shop window,
he can hear the morning newspapers
rustle-gossip
his name
in vain.

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