Asses Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He coughed so hard
the linings of his lungs
peeled off and were propelled
through Valplast partials
and urobilinogen saliva
unto his golden pocketwatch.
That dreadful dust,
composed of death
and lingering decay,
creating evil stench
that never goes away.
His name was Goethe,
Johann, to be exact,
he had not been embalmed
as he had asked
with fading breath
for much 'more light',
thus years have passed
so many, full of history
which would have been
methinks, much better off
if cancelled at rehearsal,
and newly clever peasant,
just born, has quickly learned
the pastime of a never ending game
called cleaning house and barn
of cobwebs of the past
and fragrances once pleasant.
It gives, or so I'm told
a sense of power,
enriching, as it does
the frontal lobes
and, as the sweetness
of the nectar is kissed by ego
updrafts supported by illusion
soon carry the charade to heights
that do permit the laughing leisure
of casting eyes of arrogance
down to the dull and feeble masses.
There lives, near the old hunting grounds
outside of Weimar a descendant,
and by coincidence his name is
the very same, though he is not a poet.
Remarking to his class of yawning pupils
he wonders often, who might be the asses.