POETRY
Posted: Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:45 am
Dorothy Chandler's Dead, by Charles Carreon
Dorothy Chandler's dead,
You can be sure of that,
Yes that's what I said:
"Dorothy Chandler's Dead"
And there's a parking
lot named after her,
And everyone remembers her,
But Dorothy Chandler's dead.
Armand Hammer is alive,
But hardly a living treasure;
I'll wager it'll give a lot of people
pleasure when he kicks the bucket
And anoints his heirs with big gouts of
sticky black cash.
Frank Sinatra is alive,
although entombed inside himself
in a private room in the same wax museum
where Liz Taylor gets her hair done.
Billy the Kid is
neither dead nor alive,
like an arsenic spring,
that glistens even as it zeroes
every living thing,
and mocks the sun with a
skeleton face.
Dorothy Chandler's dead,
You can be sure of that,
Yes that's what I said:
"Dorothy Chandler's Dead"
And there's a parking
lot named after her,
And everyone remembers her,
But Dorothy Chandler's dead.
Armand Hammer is alive,
But hardly a living treasure;
I'll wager it'll give a lot of people
pleasure when he kicks the bucket
And anoints his heirs with big gouts of
sticky black cash.
Frank Sinatra is alive,
although entombed inside himself
in a private room in the same wax museum
where Liz Taylor gets her hair done.
Billy the Kid is
neither dead nor alive,
like an arsenic spring,
that glistens even as it zeroes
every living thing,
and mocks the sun with a
skeleton face.