Mama Poem by Charles Bukowski

here I am
in the ground
my mouth
open
and
I can't even say
mama,
and
the dogs run by and stop and piss
on my stone; I get it all
except the sun
and my suit is looking
bad
and yesterday
the last of my left
arm gone
very little left, all harp-like
without music.

at least a drunk
in bed with a cigarette
might cause 5 fire
engines and
33 men.

I can't
do
any
thing.

but p.s. - Hector Richmond in the next
tomb thinks only of Mozart and candy
caterpillars.
he is
very bad
company.