Poor Sweet Beat Mr. McGill
If and when I try to die
do not think it suicide-
more or less a love like drunk
in this shitty garbage trunk.
And I received word later:
A sullied teenage little tramp
drowned at Capote - a lake and camp -
weights in pockets in sullen swish
bloated and blue from ending wish.
With men who say:
God sorry my friend I need not know
the pain of your poor fatherly show-
a daughter that sinks in ol' Capote
with mortality wish ziplocked in her coat.
With women who say:
My dear poor sweet beat Mr. McGill
I wonder what wonder you would reveal;
Was God in her life when his baby drowned
or was she witout God in Misery's sound?
And papers read:
The once divine poet has lost his mind
from drink and a babyless sad daily grind;
his memoirs are nonsense, all that they read
are musings of baby in health shape and speed
The only paper I choose to leave:
When morning breaks in dewey Capote
I have for then this couplet I wrote;
I could not forget the things I missed
and settled the deal with a pistol and kiss.