That skull there on
The pillow,
One two three we
Heave him up,
Belch,
One two three we
Let him down, down,
Death bubbles in his
Guts,
Fiddles the clockwork
In his heart.
A nappy smothers
Paper skin and knees hover, angling,
Buzzards above the
Wan skeleton, barely
Worth the fuss.
His eyes are lidded
And the curtain’s shut
But for the odd crack
Of Pain and Cricket,
Outside.
In they come, ‘The family’,
He mouths and seems to say,
As he lifts bone to
Palm, before the bridge
Breaks and his life flows
Off, prisoner no more,
Away.