Getting Late Poem by Ima Ryma

My God, the morgue is where I'm at.
I'm still alive. Why can't they tell?
Some kind of paralysis that
Just took hold of me - what the hell?
I was taking a walk outside.
My face brushed some leaves overhead.
I fell. Passersby said I died.
A doctor confirmed I was dead.
Now I'm lying on this cold slab,
Praying that somehow, someone will,
With a non lethal prick or jab,
Discover that I'm alive - still.

Oh God, the last thing that I see -
That whirring blade coming at me.