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Somewhere, there’s a grave.
Somewhere
there’s a darkened stage
swathed with only memories of laughter.
Wafts of nicotine breezed
with Hennessey
in the air
now bare
with no spotlight shined upon ‘em.

Somewhere a comedian has tried
to take a last gasp, but couldn’t…
and yet the last laughs
on
us.

Somewhere, there’s a grave
that’s saved a million
from their own demise. I’ve
heard their
cries through a silence
that’s echoed in pity at a laughless joke.
There’s no stage to cage that rage; and sadly,
there’s no calming cigarette to smoke.

A broken-down clown has cried
trying to
at last laugh, but couldn’t…
And still the last laughs
on
us

‘cause somewhere there’s a grave
containing someone who gave so much
to a world that’s
never given anything to him.
(Perhaps a little, but not terrible often)
Lied within a coffin,
there’re funeral hymns
screaming his virtues, while
eulogies
whisper his sin.

Somewhere, somewhen
our sense of humor has died -
lied
right beside the greatest punch line of all:
“We’re all just meant to fall.”

The will to live
The will to keep on breathing
The will to keep on believing that
somewhere beneath it all
there’s a way out.
With no more wills to bequeath,

our comedian’s underneath
a hoard of flowers
unlikely needed like
hoards of hours, pleaded…
pleading that
bleeding’s not our only fate.

The last laughs finally come
but it’s come
far…
too late.

A comedian’s died,
seemingly mused;
but we’re only infatuatedly confused
within our own sate.

Alone with his own lone microphone
in a coffin, softened lay,
our comedian’s
finally left…
and he’s left without a word
to
say.

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