A Cannibal Celebration

There’s a man who stole my head

and yet I’m not quite dead

I look and I hear,

but speaking I fear

has gone with the rest of my body.


He stole my head, as I said

took it while I laid in bed

and he strolled right out

because I couldn’t shout

and put me in his Camry.


And we’ve been driving all this time

from Sundance to Omaha and down the line

and this heads-man hasn’t said a word

at least not one my ears have heard

over the tunes of Neal Diamond and Who.


But upon our destination

I had a thrilling kind of sensation

for as he grabbed me by my hair

and carried me up the stair

I saw his motley, devilish crew.


With steak knives and sharpedged spoons

a menacing bunch of gap-toothed goons

with a spit for roasting

and good bread for toasting

they sat me as their center piece

and commenced their ghastly feast

and soon I could not hear nor see

I couldn’t speak or taste or flee

and my cranium was crunched

and my nostrils were munched

and my brain gushed all it’s memory.

In that fading moment that was me

as I perished, dying, I sensed a touch

just a final, lingering brush

of steel on skin

as they began cutting in

the man who’d taken my head

with one slice, returned me to bed

a sleep of sleeps, eternal in rest

away from the pulsing of a panicked breast

a feast held in my honor to rend

my senses from me and then… “The End”

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