He coughed so hard <br />the linings of his lungs <br />peeled off and were propelled <br />through Valplast partials <br />and urobilinogen saliva <br />unto his golden pocketwatch. <br />That dreadful dust, <br />composed of death <br />and lingering decay, <br />creating evil stench <br />that never goes away. <br />His name was Goethe, <br />Johann, to be exact, <br />he had not been embalmed <br />as he had asked <br />with fading breath <br />for much 'more light', <br />thus years have passed <br />so many, full of history <br />which would have been <br />methinks, much better off <br />if cancelled at rehearsal, <br />and newly clever peasant, <br />just born, has quickly learned <br />the pastime of a never ending game <br />called cleaning house and barn <br />of cobwebs of the past <br />and fragrances once pleasant. <br />It gives, or so I'm told <br />a sense of power, <br />enriching, as it does <br />the frontal lobes <br />and, as the sweetness <br />of the nectar is kissed by ego <br />updrafts supported by illusion <br />soon carry the charade to heights <br />that do permit the laughing leisure <br />of casting eyes of arrogance <br />down to the dull and feeble masses. <br />There lives, near the old hunting grounds <br />outside of Weimar a descendant, <br />and by coincidence his name is <br />the very same, though he is not a poet. <br />Remarking to his class of yawning pupils <br />he wonders often, who might be the asses.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/asses/
