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Not dead, but sleeping.

I was not dead, but sleeping
when you went and buried me.
Can you not now hear me calling
from the old town cemetery?

My grave is cold and lonely.
I wish that I could leave;
even for just one day only,
to see whether you grieve.

For I have a strong suspicion,
you were glad to see me go;
glad to send me to perdition,
glad to pick up all my dough.

(This box is quite constricting:
I can't move an arm or leg,
and the screwed down lid's restricting
the very breath with which I beg.)

So I guess there's not much longer
for me in darkness here to lie.
I'm not getting any stronger,
will never know the reason why.

Why you stuck the kitchen cleaver
in so deep between my ribs,
and became a story weaver;
told the coppers all those fibs.

Just a moment, now I can gauge
Why no one can hear me call:
since you sliced right through my rib cage
I am stone dead after all.

Well blimey there's a thought,
so I'm really just a stiff.
No point getting overwrought
about our lethal lovers' tiff.

Cos I don't just have to lie here
in this cold and lonely grave
I can haunt you now my dear,
I hope you're feeling brave.

Learn more about this author, Paul Morgan.
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