Continued from Yesterday

Here is an example of Fiorella's type of poetry, a tight little sonnet on suicide she wrote years ago when she was very depressed.  The "Dorothy" to whom it is addressed is Dorothy Parker, who wrote "Razors pain you;/Rivers are damp;/Acids stain you;/And drugs cause cramp./Guns aren't lawful;/Nooses give;/Gas smells awful;/You might as well live."  Ol' Dorothy wrote pretty tight herself--and used punctuation out the wazoo.

I called this cheery little ditty "Suicide."

                                 

            Ah, Dorothy, your choice was much too rash:

            There are other options I could recommend

            Than poison, razors, nooses, guns, or gas

            To bring about a graceful, private end.

            The suffocation of the spirit's one--

            On shallow breaths, hope is inclined to smother;

            An assault on the heart can get it done,

            The strangulation of the soul's another.

            Then you still could walk about, though dead,

             A lumbering, slack-jawed zombie, hollow-eyed,

            You'd grin and bow and nod your pleasant head

            With no one guessing you're a suicide.

                     Don't think that, knowing, any would be grieved

                    My own experience is, they'd be relieved.