Deathbed Poets

I didn’t hear a buzzing fly,
but Poets came the day I died:

Edgy Poets first,
they cursed and grabbed my hand,
said they feared the worst, read verse
I couldn’t understand;
took my pulse, but found it
too predictable.

Humorous Poets next,
the sexy sods;
although I was dying, I fancied them still.
They read parodies and witty rhyme,
then sloped away to catch the pubs
before closing time.

Then the Over-Rated and Self-Inflated;
they intoned.
I groaned,
and begged to be more heavily sedated.

At last The Angels came.
They stayed.
They spoke about embroidered cloths,
and grains of sand,
and thoughts too deep for tears,
then led me back
down all the arches of the years,
reading the ballad of my life
word perfectly.

Annie Fisher

If you have any comments on this poem,  Annie Fisher  would be pleased to hear from you.