“Septimus Dymond is Dead”
This poem is for my friends, Elaine and John, who keep me focused on the pleasure of seeing the glass half full, and the world as a decent place. I hope it makes them laugh.
Septimus Dymond, he lies dead.
He’d tried to live inside his head
Because the world was bad, and the people worse,
He’d read about them, chapter and verse,
In that local paper they called “The Rag”,
Which he got for free from an ancient hag.
It was just the same when he put on the telly,
Murder everywhere; he wasn’t safe, was he?
People would rob you even for your shoes
And no-one cared, you were yesterday’s news.
That was the trouble when you got old,
The true meaning of life was about to unfold
And he didn’t like it, not even a bit,
So, all day long in his chair he’d sit.
He’d sit and think and he’d sit and read,
And he didn’t notice when he started to bleed,
And then when everywhere had turned hazy red,
Well… Septimus Dymond, he lay dead…
© Bella Fortuna®, February 2007
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