| Dead Men Tell No Tales
(See if this makes any sense to anyone! This is for another scholarship, and I wanted to run it by people before turning it in. It's not about the rhyme; it's the syllabic reduction of each line.)
The prophet keeps banging on my grave,
Telling me to get up and follow.
I'm a shadow of my former self,
But I look so very good in black.
The tattered funeral veil lifts.
Exorcised by Charlie's Angels,
I fall into a deck of cards.
The Queen of Spades buries me
Next to the Joker; alas,
Poor Yorick. I knew him well.
He has something to tell you:
"Cloud Nine is slippery;
There's no friction up there."
Defeat tastes like pie.
Eat yourself to death.
I'll bury you deep
So you can't climb out.
Hold nothingness.
Please don't scream.
After all, dead men tell no tales. |