Photo from the New York Times.
John Prine Dies at Seventy-Three
It is comforting to allude to your own death
as the ladybug moon crawls through the clouds’ white hair.
The lonesome friends of science say the world will end most any day.
Well, if it does, then that’s okay, ‘cause I don’t live here anyway.
To die in a hospital a few miles from where you were born,
To condense and lick up time lost on two ex-wives.
And I always will remember these words my daddy said.
He said, “Buddy, when you’re dead, you’re a dead peckerhead.“
The only person who can write well
enough about his own life is the dead man.
I don’t cry when people die, but I worry about rhyme
and a fourth-cup of flour and a tablespoon of thyme.
When I get to heaven, I’m going to shake God’s hand
and thank Him for more blessings than one man can stand.
Some dead men deserve bad poems to soak up their wine
and prop up their lamppost and tear up their eulogy.
I wonder if calls from heaven can be intercepted by the Russians.