This story is rated 4 stars (1 ratings).

by Hurdling Skooter


I was not dead, but sleeping

when you went and buried me.

Can you not now hear me calling

from the old town cemetery?


My grave is cold and lonely.

I wish that I could leave;

even for just one day only,

to see whether you grieve.


For I have a strong suspicion,

you were glad to see me go;

glad to send me to perdition,

glad to pick up all my dough.


(This box is quite constricting:

I can’t move an arm or leg,

and the screwed down lid’s restricting

the very breath with which I beg.)


So I guess there’s not much longer

for me in darkness here to lie.

I’m not getting any stronger,

will never know the reason why.


Why you stuck the kitchen cleaver

in so deep between my ribs,

and became a story weaver;

told the coppers all those fibs.


Just a moment, now I can gauge

Why no one can hear me call:

since you sliced right through my rib cage

I am stone dead after all.


Well blimey there’s a thought,

so I’m really just a stiff.

No point getting overwrought

about our lethal lovers’ tiff.


‘Cos I don’t just have to lie here

in this cold and lonely grave

I can haunt you now my dear,

I hope you’re feeling brave.

© Hurdling Skooter 2013




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