The trouble with poets
is how do you know it’s
Deceased. Try the priest!
He’ll giving you a blessing,
once you’ve done confessing
what begins as small sins,
but may become bigger
one you learn to figure
the game. What a shame
there’s no such solution
for Jews––absolution
depends on amends.
After Sweeney Todd has killed Pirelli and failed to kill the Judge Turpin, Mrs. Lovett realizes the potential tastiness of human flesh and, eyeing a poet and priest, sings Stephen Sondheim’s immortal words: :
The trouble with poets is how do know it’s
Deceased. Try the priest.
11/8/08
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem