Nobody likes to be told

Nobody likes to be told

When they are wrong

In the case of dead men

There is a lack of I told you so

More of a wait-and-see.

Dead men wear plaid

Tell no tales

But never fail to be where

You expect them to be.

Heads full of sawdust

Without an original thought

Between them.

Stuffed into a wooden box

For the duration.

Queuing up on the dance floor

Waiting for the tune to stop.

There is always a chair missing

For the ducking stool.

There is no right way to be

Other than curled up

On a water bed

Listening to the tide come in

Unable to distinguish

The ebb from the flow.

Dodging bullets

Until the marked one

Comes along

Making a hole in the universe

You could drive a car through.

Too late to avoid

Sucked into the back of beyond

With the cobwebs

In the tool shed.

Where real men lie in wait

For the movement of the stars

To tell them when to breathe.

Banging the sawdust

Out of their ears

Hoping they got it wrong

The grave they dug was for the cat

And they have another life

To live.

With a head full of ideas

Borrowed from the Readers Digest

Little Book of Horrors

Stuffed into a drawer

Under the bean counter.

Where all the sawdust

In the world

Is reprocessed

Dipped in engine oil

And repackaged

As human experience.