The Little Cough

There's a cough, little cough,
who is trying to say,
"I wish I could stay here.
I wish I could stay!
But there is a lady
Who's sitting right there;
To camp out with you,
Well, it wouldn't be fair."

"Ok, little cough,
I give you permission.
Go to the lady
For whom you've been wishin'.
But when you are gone
You'd best not return
For you and your kind
I am aiming to spurn."

Abigail Speaks

I have a small baby who farts.
Her "wisdom" she freely imparts.
She lets loose a toot,
That cute little coot,
From a onesie all covered with hearts.

The Slow March of Suicide

My ol' uncle refuses even to consider the idea.
Something is wrong; he's coughing blood
But he just lights up another heater,
Saying, "Never killed me before.
I'll have a couple more fingers of bourbon, barkeep."

He is dying.
It doesn't mean he will actually die.
No, there's no reason for it.
But somehow it seems, all joviality aside,
That he's had his run and doesn't care much
But to have another and another and tell jokes
And make believe and throw his arms up,
"Nobody could have done better,
But sometimes you hit the end of the road."
As if dull platitudes absolved him of suicide.
"Bourbon, Sam?"  "Yeah, sure, make it a double."