His tone was so rebarbative
He could not be allowed to live.
I pushed him underneath a train.
His plangent pleas were all in vain.
I found I didn’t give a toss.
(It was a consequential loss)
But said in lapidary phrases,
‘You’re better pushing up the daises.
Your death is but a cold statistic
I am uncaring, solipsistic,
And much prefer to keen and croon
Beneath a pale and gibbous moon.’
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