Sleepmonger,deathmonger,with capsules in my palms each night,eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottlesI make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the tripand now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
HY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,every color and as good as sour balls.
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes,
I admitit has gotten to be a bit of a habit-blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,hauled away by the pink, the orange,the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a 's it!
My supplyof tabletshas got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs insideof myself.
YesI tryto kill myself in small amounts,an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me outand I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightieeating my eight loaves in a rowand in a certain order as inthe laying on of handsor the black sacrament.
It's a ceremonybut like any other sportit's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match wheremy mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altarelevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this iswith two pink, two orange,two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
