Remorse Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Today I am up to the hilt
since early morning filled with guilt.
Still sleep-lagged wandered to the shower
at that ungodly twilight hour
a movement, slight, caught my left eye
which meant that one of us must die.
Since I, in this house am the coach
I figured that the best approach
might be to take initiative
that soon the fellow would be stiff.
Aunt Hulda told me years ago
that roaches scurry to and fro
in search for food and even drink
but give them water and they'll sink.
So, providence had placed me here
near source of water, which was sheer
good luck to those whom God regards
as fit to get his sweet rewards,
and if you ask I think that God
does find those creatures rather odd
although he made them with his hands
I doubt today he understands
what happened in Creation Week.
The roach is not the only freak
of course, but think on this a bit
imagine that you managed it
this making of so many species
you would produce some funny faeces
if you don't mind colloquial French.
Well, roach was crawling down the bench
the aim was clearly to conceal
his ugly mug in this hot Spiel.
A waterglass was filled with speed
in this my hour of great need
and thrown at him with utmost grace
you should have seen his frozen face!
His death was quick, I can attest
that he, the uninvited guest
did only suffer heavy terror
deservedly and not in error.
But in the end, there is that nagging
self-doubt, replaced by nascent bragging
but you and I know that remorse
is, in a way, just a dead horse.