• Mr. Bones, cracked and frowzy,
    a loose grin hangs on your lips.
    Holes gape and gawk at whomever stands before you-
    you swallow all and yet see none.
    your milky fingers squirm and twinge, like quivering spiders
    wishing to weave one last time.
    Wretched, they call you:
    the haplessly deceased.
    "Such a pity," they wail
    "No breath shall escape his lungs!"
    Here you sit, gathering dust and
    crumbling away, into nihility...
    Alas, Mr. Bones, I envy you for all these things.