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It won't be an honerable death.

I won't go out wrestling a Kodiak bear or

Breaking the land speed record in a race car.

I won't be buried in Arlington

National

Cemetery

Like

Some great general

Who led the war effort for America.

And I won't be remembered

Like Picasso or Matisse

Or the assassin who started World War 1.

Most likely,

It will be pathetic

Like the rest of them, my death.
I will go kicking and screaming

Through tears

That I'm not ready to die

To the punch drunk nurses

And the cynical doctors.

And I will most likely

Be buried in an unmarked grave,

Or they will incinerate me

And spread my ashes in a dumpster.

I don't think much of death because I don't think much of life.

Chalk it up to faith, I guess.

I don't stop when they report a big plane crash.

I don't slow down on the highway

At the sight of a car accident.

I value life, but I'm not in love with it.

It's been a hard life.

A five dollar name for a two cent life, I like to say.

Andrew Walter Prout IV lived here.  He

Slept with women, wrote a few books, loved

His mother vehemently, got arrested a few times

And dropped out of three Universities...

Never saw Paris.