Out Like a Lamb

At the Death Cafe

I hear tell tea is always offered,
but the cake is dry - don't choke
Yeah, I had to go there. It's a joke
when treats with death are proffered

They take a stab at it, guess ends -
The chef's got a suicidal streak
she'll cut deep with skilled technique
leave lengthy notes, pretend amends

And he, fat and damaged in the corner
predicts his buttered heart attacked.
Face it, probably for him a fact;
still, a shock for mom and mourner

It's an afternoon of sugared scone
biscotti dipped in poison, pox,
designing your last resting box -
I'd rather choke on cake alone.


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April 6—Death Cafe