Dying thoughts


The hedge trimmer pierced his precious skin,

Falling on the leafy green ground,

Surrounded by the privet twigs slowly dying,

Greenery and loneliness all around.


His alarmed mind started looking for answers,

To mend his and everyone’s woes,

Sending messages to complete a check list,

First can I wiggle my far off toes.


The check list was filled in and analysed,

The results were very very clear,

Life was not going to be years as thought,

He was going to die right here.


The feeling wasn’t panic or cold hard fear,

He was a most practical sensible man,

His roast chicken dinner was still cooking,

He hadn’t pressed the extractor fan.


At least the fire alarm will do its job then,

Giving the fire service the burden,

Saves me lying under this trimmed bush,

While slowly fertilizing the garden.


The freight train of thoughts still passed,

His will was wonderfully written,

His family and friends would be just fine,

His daughter will love the kitten.


The company he ran would initially lose,

But his secretary knew his passwords,

Tim his head hunted second in command,

Would continue making the fake turds.


Thoughts were whirling round his head,

Who would take over the golf club,

Will he get a trophy named in his honour,

Would he get a plaque in the pub.


Then a more ethereal subject entered,

Where would he be going next,

Would heaven be as good as its said,

He had never read the fine text.


Would there be a strict dress code,

He had never look good in a toga,

What extra activities were provided,

He hoped to God it wasn’t yoga.


But what if he went the other way,

He wasn’t a big fan of high heat,

What were those seven deadly sins,

Finally his laziness admitted defeat.


Suddenly he felt the icy cold breath,

Death was crawling up his bloody leg,

Shouting out his goodbyes to the earth,

For God’s forgiveness he began to beg.


 His thought train started to slow down,

The end of the track had been reached,

The last thought of this unfortunate man,

Oh no I forgot to turn off the. . . . . . .




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