Suicide

a yellow breasted bird

on an old fruit tree

fluttered its wings as it left

what a sight to be seen; for a man such as thee

on the tip of his very last breath

alas nothing grew in the garden again,

not a flower; not even a weed

nothing but a stone, and a wreck of a home

and the roots of an old fruit tree

but a day it would come, when as yellow as the sun, fell a feather from a little bird's breast

for above it did flutter; with no quiver or stutter

where the man and the tree lay at rest

suicide ₢2017 c.seanmcgee

Pé na Cova (one foot in the grave)

"Why wait?" I said. "Why hesitate? "What good is one day from another?"

You just laughed, and slapped my back;

"That's a good one," you said. "That's a real good one, my brother."

And so we drank to all our worries,

And we drank to all the blues.

And the sun it rose in a miserable light,

As we drank to all of the truths.

The truths we had forgotten,

And those we'd rather forget.

To the ones which proclaimed us a villains,

And to those which we owe a great debt.

And so we drank to the end of times,

To love and its inevitable end.

And we stumbled off home in the wee hours of dawn,

Just a prick and his miserable friend.

One Foot in the Grave ₢2017 C. Sean McGee