Teeth
They took my teeth. They may enjoy my pox. Little pleasure, had I, in the procuring of it. They took my half-crown coat—no shroud, just coarse sawdust — to keep me warm, a fine outfit. I want to be complete to meet my God. I had a winning smile, a smile that melts all hearts. Now all is left this skeletal gape, in this shallow scrape excuse for a grave, a dog could dig me up. I will rise up and drag the living to their rest. There, we can find equality in the grave. by Alan Morris