A geezer by the name of Herrmann <br />had always in his life been German. <br />He stayed, as many of them do, <br />at home and not in Timbuktu. <br /> <br />The time to die came in the Spring <br />when flowers wake and bluebirds sing. <br />They placed him in an upstairs bed <br />and thought by morning he'd be dead. <br /> <br />The man who'd been a pastry baker <br />was not too keen to meet his maker, <br />yet medicines had been in vain, <br />he had a tumour on the brain. <br /> <br />Now, tumours, on occasion, will <br />change senses while they make you ill. <br />The sense of smell did change and fool <br />the patient, who began to drool... <br /> <br />when odours of slow-broiling liver <br />sent to his spine a frigid shiver, <br />with all his strength he stood and went <br />downstairs to see what all this meant. <br /> <br />The kitchen table, fully laden <br />and by the stove a fresh young maiden, <br />prepared what seemed a ton of meat, <br />he wondered whether he could eat... <br /> <br />a piece before the Reaper Grim <br />would claim his soul and come for him. <br />Just as he reached toward the table, <br />new appetite which made him able <br /> <br />to muster strength this time in life, <br />she spotted him, his grieving wife. <br />'Quicksmart, you go back up to bed! <br /> <br />You're finished and will soon be dead. <br />I can't allow for you to take <br />a single piece. It's for the WAKE!<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tastebuds-at-the-time-of-death/
