An Epitaph
Dear Uncle Floyd,
When you died, I asked mom what I could do. She said “write a poem”. I wrote a poem and meant to send it to you. But that was before you died. And I woke to find it slashed to pieces: A roommate with a knife (and a mental problem).
I looked at it then. My heart sank. I think about it now. I still wonder: Was it something like voodoo? Did I cause your demise?
So, mother said to write a poem. I didn’t, then. I don’t think I did, anyway. I don’t remember. I only know that since (it seems so long), I can’t seem to write any more. Not poetry, anyway.
I wrote rap, for awhile. You wouldn’t like that. In fact, I wrote a rap song about you. Remember you took us to Six Flags? In this rap, I rhymed Six Flags with sick fags (hmmm). Told you that you wouldn’t like it! LOL
So, I just now sat down to write that poem my mother said to write. I figured it should be sentimental. It wasn’t. But it helps, in a way, just to be able to write a poem. And I did it with you in mind.
Still, you won’t recognize yourself in it (I’m not even sure you’re really IN it)! Well, here goes:
Willie Mocha Ree
Silly joker, me:
Broke a knee…
Stroke of three
Hit a tree!
Willie Mocha ReeBim Bam Boom
In my room:
Little gnome…
In my home
Wrote this pome!
Bim Bam BoomAb-ra-cadab-ra
Abhore a Gabor:
Eva, Magda, or Zsa Zsa…
Don’t know, I’m not shore!
Which whore?
Ab-ra-cadab-raNo more!
“Funny” thing is: I didn’t even break a knee! Anyway, I’m hoping that someone might read something into this poem that even I didn’t know was there when I wrote it. Silly things, poems. And no, I’m not crying as I write this. Really!
Love,
Your Nephew
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