Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

A Terrible Poem For My Father

Alaric is in the White City.
We guarded the southern gate,
But the vandals were everywhere.

It will be all right,
But eventually is a long way off.
And we have to make it through today.

My father used to ask me,
“Who told you life was fair?”
And he taught me to be proud
To be an American.
One out of two isn’t bad.

We buried him off the Parkway, and
I hope six feet was deep enough
To keep the newspaper
From being delivered.

I wish you were here, Dad;
But I’m glad you’re dead, Steve.


  1. Not a terrible poem.

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