Suicidal Writer Poem by Daniel Thomason

They say Mr. Hemingway put a shotgun past Idaho,
And aimed for the wars that consumed Farewell,
They said his heart was elsewhere and further,
It was supposedly dancing with the angels in hell.

They say Mr. Branco put a revolver past Portugal,
And aimed for the eyes that no longer could see,
They said his body was aching and chuckling,
It was supposedly searching for its ways that were free.

They say Ms. Berger put a stop past Basel,
And aimed for the life that beckoned in Hügel,
They said her stomach was rushing and repeating some murmur,
It was supposedly digesting a little too slow.

They say Mr. Berkman put a handgun past France,
And aimed for the knowledge that tagged along anarchy,
They said his pain had led to some rain,
It was supposedly running its mouth with his malarkey.

They say Mr. Me put pills past Wisconsin,
And aimed for the voices that were caged in his mind,
They said his fall was nothing but a cry,