The Fickleness of Infatuation

The jabberwocky along the way...
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The cemetery looks more like a golf course.

Big shady trees

Six feet under is enough shade,

When you’re dead.

A pond to cool your toes,

Your toes are already cool

When you’re dead.

Space to breathe

A coffin and decaying lungs make space unnecessary,

When you’re dead.

I call it the golf course now. They sneer at me and my morbid sense of humor. I just sneer back and tell them it’s no humor, just morbidity. But one night I’ll take a golf club and a bucket of balls and head to “The Golf Course” I’ll set my course up and place 18 holes. And maybe I’ll make a hole in one, right into a grave. And those who sneered will say “She should have just called it what it is. A grave yard.”

Over the pond and through the shade to grandmothers house we go.