by underswansea


When death comes knocking,
I hope the creeks are up,
My teeth are loose,
And I’m not constipated,
So it’ll all come easy.

I hope my spot on the hill,
Will still be vacant.
The lake calm,
The grass green,
High and yellow,
Dry and stiff.
One or the other.

I hope they have to nudge me awake
And when they do I’ll be too pissed,
To go anywhere.
I hope the light is right.
I hope the mountains look like statuesque breasts,
And the wind tastes like pussy.
I hope my handgun’s loaded.
I hope I’m one swallow from an empty beer,
With one more in the cooler.

I hope the ice is still on the backsides of the mountains.
So I can slide down to the Kootenay.
Ripping my arse raw on the spring corn snow.
I hope the dogs look like they know what they’re doing.

When death comes knocking,
They’d better bring backup.