Humorous Poem by Simon Pocklington

I was called to pronounce life extinct
on a poet

Could it be that
in revolt at being badly written
his poems
had finally ganged up on him.
And one night whilst he slept
smothered him
like spoilt children
plotting to dispose of a parent
to inherit freedom.

But in this case 
his poems
unpublished
would die with him.

Inspired by a comment made to me by a police doctor.

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