I Had Breakfast With Death
I had breakfast with Death, it was bacon and eggs
And I put my hand on her long blonde legs
And I kissed her mouth and I kissed her hair
And her hair was long and her face was fair
And I knew who she was but I didn’t care
So for hours and hours through the old grey town
We walked and we talked as the rain came down.
And I told her I loved her and she loved me
And the magic number was nine times three.
And she laughed and she called me a silly feller
For I was a poet, a storyteller
And we got to her place under one umbrella.
And she climbed up the stair where she lit the light
For the day was day but the night was night.
And I didn’t know but I thought she might
And we read some poems and some were mine
And she told me my poems were fine, just fine
And the magic number was three times nine.
And we smoked some dope and we drank some wine
And the dope was good and the wine was hock
And she turned the key and she locked the lock
And she put her hand on my long blonde cock
And I stroked her breasts and I stroked her hair
And her breasts were bare and she didn’t care
So we lay on the floor and we did it there
And she kissed my mouth and she breathed my breath
And she told me her name. It was Ashtoreth.
If you have any comments on this poem, John Whitworth would be pleased to hear from you.