BY DR. AGONSON
Old Harry couldn’t cope
and so he bought a rope.
He tied it round his neck
and jumped off of his deck.
The sirens wailed and screamed
to apprehend the fiend
who’d dare to form a noose
—Such racism let loose!
They published his address
and urged him to confess.
Yet silent is the grave
no matter how men rave.
Old Harry still hangs there,
his hated skin, once fair,
here rotting, falling, gone,
the worms now feast upon.
A skeleton’s bleached bones
belongs to any tone,
and when a man will die
does his color survive?
Tale Told 
1 Comment