I bind the wounds but
poetry bleeds out from me
and
I am dying slow, (slowly)
(which makes it rhyme)

But I never gave a rats *** if things
rhymed or just fell flat,
my life was this
and
though some say
cat's have nine lives
I've had ninety three
and to me
that's certainly
albeit strange a form of
poetry.

the reckoning will come
when my day down here is done

one of the 'late'
stood at the pearly gate,
a queue to see who gets a pass?
well
they can kiss my deceased ***

I'll sit and write on Facebook,
'Look at this, they won't let me in',
post a gif, perhaps a smiley
create some havoc and in a while he
(the guardian of the gate)
might relent

if they and I'm sure they do
recognise talent
they'll let me through
in that I have great faith.