A Maudlin Demise

Make no mistake, 

Death shouldn’t be messy.

It’s best approached 

With trained tastes, 

Subtle sensibilities, 

A certain innate feel

For nuance, a sense of 

Grace.

Now,

Elvis died on a 

(Porcelain) throne,

Without a shred of 

Dignity, though he 

Passed away at home. 

Had he known just how 

He’d go, his last snap:

Slumped, fat and flabby,

He would’ve noshed

On loperamide, the 

Higher to drive the 

Chances of dying 

With his pants on. 

Could he’d’ve chosen 

Where he’d sigh his last 

And, mayhap too, picked

Some other beating heart 

For company and closure, 

(Though truth to tell, were 

We off to Heaven or to

Hell, amidst packed kin

Or in cold solitude,

Alone do we all leave.)

With a backstage pass 

To the eternal show,

The King left this plane,

Eschewed his corpse,

Jumped that last hoop

But, before he left, he 

Had a nice warm poop.