Death Becomes Us Poem by P.R. Prosper

You know what's funny?
When your dead on your feet, but you work ‘til you're dead tired
Wait, that's not a joke
Because your paycheck's left for dead and you still end up dead broke
Umm, Whatever
Let's get dead drunk!

You know what's funny?
I once knew this girl who was a dead ringer
For a sultry supermodel or celebrity singer
I told her "You're drop-dead gorgeous when you're dressed to kill
Your kiss must be a thrill; you're a sexy starlet with an arrow
And every heart must be your target."
"I want to love you to death, " she said. "Ha! I'm just kidding."
It was cruel of course, and I don't mean to beat a dead horse
But I was dead certain I would still do her bidding
She wouldn't be caught dead wearing clothes out of fashion
Strictly haute couture, none of that Abercrombie
But I must have bored her to death because she turned into a zombie
And I had a bad case of fatal attraction
She remained on my mind more than locks-dread
So I asked her out for dinner at a special place
But she tried to eat my face and then grumbled "dropp dead."

You know what's funny?
An author who writes a story that's been done to death
And you're dying to read it, dying to see it because it's selling best
A story about a down and out artist living in the big city
In the dead of winter her inspiration is cold and extra gritty
But then one day our artist gets a dead serious phone call
From a man who says that she's dead meat, and he will be the bone saw
She hangs up, grabs a cup of paint and jumps straight to her feet
Her growing fear and questions compete in a dead heat
She runs out of her loft, down the stairs to the snowy street
And tries to solicit any help from the icy crowd she meets
That's when she spots him, dead ahead
Knife in hand, he was ready to cut her up like a loaf of bread
She was frozen stiff, but trembling; her legs were like dead weight
He made his way closer, and she was stopped dead in her tracks
Her beating heart would wake the dead and raise them to the sky
If she could turn that line to a painting, her agent would just die
As he raised his deadly hand, she knew he had her dead to rights
Suddenly, she remembered the cup and threw the liquid in his eyes
She quit playing dead, and with one swift move kicked his boys dead on
Killing two birds with one stone
He crumpled to his knees, wailing a very painful song
She stepped back from him, cautiously, and staggered to the curb
If she was a dead duck, then she was one that still had a lot of nerve
He swung wildly at passersby, trying to knock ‘em dead
Through squinted eyes he saw his prey, and blindly followed where she led
Right into traffic, as a bus was passing, well
There's no need to be more graphic
I won't spoil the ending even if it's a dead giveaway
So let's just say
Our artist's brush with death didn't leave her dead as a doornail
And that's good because we all know dead men tell no tales

You know what's funny?
Even though we're afraid to perish
We all say morbid things, and we're ever so mindless
Like
Is it right to kill someone with kindness?
What if they deserve to die with dignity?
Who knows? Someday that may prob'ly
Change, but until death becomes us
Meh, c'est la vie