[Roger Slater]

TOAST

The thing about dying
that bothers me most
is after you've done it
folks say you are "toast,"

as if while we live we
are nothing but bread
being cooked in a toaster,
not done till we're dead.

On the day I stop breathing,
remark if you must
that my goose has been cooked
or I've bitten the dust,

that I've purchased the farm
or surrendered the ghost.
Just do me one favor:
Don't say I am "toast."

[Nigel Mace]

Very good - though I wondered if there wasn't potential to play with the word in an alternative sense at the end?

[Janice D. Soderling]

Very good indeed, Roger.

[RCL]

The Waiter’s Verses

Shalom! I’m at your service. Please
enjoy The Garden’s fresh and tempting
treats to titillate your palates.

Madam, you’ll like the starters, new
Jerusalems (the bracts’ll tickle
your tonsils) or marinated palm hearts.

Is all our fare for vegans? No sir!
The Executive Chef foresees he’ll soon
salt lambs to roast in blazing pits.

To finish, taste these fruits, as red
as blood—true sweets, only known
to those who crave to-die-for feasts.
Shalom! I am who waits.

[Graham King]

Deleted, because the post it referred to has been deleted.

[Graham King]

Originally Posted by Roger Slater

TOAST

The thing about dying
that bothers me most
is after you've done it
folks say you are "toast,"

as if while we live we
are nothing but bread
being cooked in a toaster,
not done till we're dead.

On the day I stop breathing,
remark if you must
that my goose has been cooked
or I've bitten the dust,

that I've purchased the farm
or surrendered the ghost.
Just do me one favor:
Don't say I am "toast."

I like that, Roger!

[RCL]

It Seems

I am falling apart at the seams
it seems.

Feet are swelled and ankles strained
knees are locked and steps restrained
hips are stiff and gut so bloated
my inny is outted!

Prostate is gone and pizzle is napping
breasts now bulge, dewlaps are flapping
nose is knobbed and ears now bristle
fat lips won’t whistle.

Brain still left once was deft
but losing its heft is thought bereft
its future moot, my fleshly suit
departs, kaput.

I am falling apart at the seams
it seems.

[Graham King]

Humbert D. Umperdinck sat on a wall
Till its property-value increase;
From on high, very blithe, looking down on us all:
Fat, round-cheeked, with a feeling of peace.

But a market-crash suddenly came, with a fall
In the value of bricks and of mortar;
‘I’m bereft! Woe! What worth has wall left?’ was his call:
‘Just a fraction of value it oughter!’

In despair and dismay his bank-balance was lost
(By the taxman and creditors plundered);
As well (rising relatively) living’s cost
Humbert’s ‘got-it-togetherness’ sundered.

He fell from Wall Street to the street, where he lies:
Now no magnate, but flea-magnet only.
No mansion, but box of cardboard, greets his eyes;
He is broken, and hollow, and lonely.

[Douglas G. Brown]

Stranger, pause here to remember
My dearly departed Aunt Cora;
Felled by ten billion E-coli,
Plus other intestinal flora.

[Jayne Osborn]

The teacher was getting to know each kid,
and asked them in turn what their fathers did.
“Tell me, what is your Daddy’s job then, Wayne?”
“He’s a motorman, Miss. He drives a train.”

She turned to Humphrey, “And what about you?
Can you tell me, what does your father do?”
“He’s a carpenter, Miss. He works with wood.
“Oh, a craftsman,” she said, “that’s very good.”

After that she enquired of little Fred,
“What does your Dad do?” “Nothing, Miss. He’s dead.”
“Oh dear. What did he do before he died?”
“He clutched at his throat and collapsed on his side.”