Death Poem

Have you ever thought as the hearse goes by
that you may be the next to die?
They wrap you in a big white sheet
that’s from your head down to your feet.
They put you in a big black box
and cover you up with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week,
but then your coffin begins to leak.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
the worms play pinochle on your snout!
Writhing maggots, baby flies
crawl in your stomach and out your eyes.
Your stomach turns a slimy green
and pus pours out like whipping cream.
You spread it on a slice of bread
And that’s what you eat when you are dead.