In honor of the 262nd anniversary of French Revolutionaire Jean-Paul Marat, I have written a poem.
I call it: Ode to (Hopefully) Never Being Stabbed In A Bathtub.
My name is Jean-Paul.
Some folks call me JP.
Some folks say I’m a terrific athlete.
That may have once been true.
But now I’m dead in a bathtub.
I’m not gonna lie to you; it stung. A lot.
Being stabbed, I mean. In a bathtub.
It was kinda like that tattoo I got on spring break in Nice that year, remember?
Except that in the case of the tattoo
(It was the Chinese character for “Shark,” in case you forgot),
The bleeding eventually stopped.
And I got a nice lotion to rub on to prevent sagging, or some such nonsense.
I’ll never quite get how all these white rags are supposed help my skin.
Stupid doctors.
All this treatment for lesions, and some wild bitch just cuts me.
Weak. HELL of weak.
Ah, screw it. I’m gonna go read ALP. Call me when a spot opens in heaven for victims of poor head coverings.
Fin.
