Desmond Tutu Died Poem by Francie Lynch

Desmond Tutu died.
He wasn't left behind in Afghanistan.
He didn't drown in a comet induced Tsunami.
The lava flow from La Palma didn't fry him.
Aids, Corona, measles, small-pox or Ebola didn't do it.
World fires didn't suck the oxygen from his lungs.
He didn't dehydrate in the Sahara.
No plane fell on him, and he didn't fall out.
His size indicates it wasn't a self-imposed hunger strike.
Desmond Tutu just died.
A two year old with his father's handgun didn't remove his head.
He wasn't struck down by a falling tree, speeding car or moped.
I'm sure he fell lots of times, but he always got back up.
He doesn't hang from a cross; he wasn't tossed overboard from a whaling ship.
And he wasn't lynched, electrocuted, injected or shot standing.
He died,
Naturally, on St. Stephen's Day, when stoning is popular.
It's a damn good thing he led such an exemplary, meritorious life, or we wouldn't know
Desmond Tutu died.