The hope is to have done enough
that one day researchers petition
the court to exhume my body
if only to see how drugs influenced
Pulitzer Prize composition.
If I'm less lucky it'll be to study
genetics' influence on selfishness
or to collect any remaining fingernail dirt
pointing to a plagiarized lifestyle.
But the grandest fear
is to go dead head-first into flames
because there's no demand for
deconstructing the flawed didacticism
behind my every verse. How would
I go in that scenario? Acid attack
by rival bard? Duel over the duchess?
Jay-running to catch the bus,