Poet

When I died and found myself on Charon’s ferry,

My mood was the very opposite of merry;

There was I, one moment, writing verse while in bed,

Next, I’m being taken to the Isle of the Dead;

It’s unfair, I thought, to have so suddenly died,

So I pushed Charon the boatman over the side,

Then I grasped the ferry’s oars and rowed back home,

Desperate to complete my poetry tome;

But when I reached my flat, I couldn’t hold my pen,

–My spectral fingers passed through it time and again;

Now I’m an angry ghost who yells many a curse,

Though I do so in wonderfully rhyming verse

By K. J. Watson

From: United Kingdom