Just like Buchwald in the hospice bed, no captive to my fate,
My demise is a well kept surprise, it has no fixed or scheduled date.
It actually will suit me fine, for you to mourn me ahead of time,
And toast my life with a gusto that I shan't soon forget.
I'm here, I'm there, I'm everywhere, I'm not dead yet.
Like an overachiever who perseveres and will not quit,
I go for broke, I just won't croak, not even just a little bit.
Unlike the hallowed heavenly host, I refuse to just give up the ghost,
And will not go gently into that good eve,
For I am on this journey sweet that I just refuse to leave.
Hell, no, I won't go, is my answer to the bogeyman.
I'm like Barack Obama, my motto's yes, I can.
And like some old and worn guitar, down to its last fret,
I still can croon a merry tune, I'm not dead yet.
Here is the most chilling thing, for me death has no horrid sting,
It's just I have a certain style, a certain grace, a certain bling.
A certain kind of passion for a certain sense of fashion.
I like bright colors, eschew the black, and somehow I keep coming back.
Back for more like a wave on the shore that cannot be refused,
Like a book that demands a second look, that yearns to be perused.
Death carries no stigma, for me it's merely an enigma,
I'll fly through the heavens like a seasoned vet.
Yet I'm here, there and everywhere, and not dead yet.
Just like Buchwald in the hospice bed, not filled with horror or with dread,
I just don't have the time right now to be the least bit dead.
So to any and all enemies, though I hope I don't have many,
To put an end to my regime, you're going to have to really scheme,
Come up with something really rash, perhaps a little brash.
Some mad and brilliant caper, a boulder from a skyscraper.
A brick to hit me in the noggin' or a vicious sort of floggin'.
Some strange and twisted torture that I will not soon forget,
For now I'll smile and enjoy the meanwhile, not dead yet.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
