Poem: John Prine Dies at Seventy-Three

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.

By Ella

I am an undergraduate junior studying creative writing. I am interested in short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction and professional writing.

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