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

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