Rumour Mill Poem by Leo Yankevich

Rumours may have reached you of
              my imminent demise.
              They're largely true, the eyes
of Don Quixote's every love

look down and almost see my flask
              of wine, beer, whisky, rum,
              fuel that helped me come
this far, where bells now lift my mask.

May cancer not say otherwise,
              dead too in the coffin,
              a lump that hurt often.

Soon we will sever all our ties;
              re-enter mother's womb
              there where you see a tomb.