Tastebuds At The Time Of Death Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

A geezer by the name of Herrmann
had always in his life been German.
He stayed, as many of them do,
at home and not in Timbuktu.

The time to die came in the Spring
when flowers wake and bluebirds sing.
They placed him in an upstairs bed
and thought by morning he'd be dead.

The man who'd been a pastry baker
was not too keen to meet his maker,
yet medicines had been in vain,
he had a tumour on the brain.

Now, tumours, on occasion, will
change senses while they make you ill.
The sense of smell did change and fool
the patient, who began to drool...

when odours of slow-broiling liver
sent to his spine a frigid shiver,
with all his strength he stood and went
downstairs to see what all this meant.

The kitchen table, fully laden
and by the stove a fresh young maiden,
prepared what seemed a ton of meat,
he wondered whether he could eat...

a piece before the Reaper Grim
would claim his soul and come for him.
Just as he reached toward the table,
new appetite which made him able

to muster strength this time in life,
she spotted him, his grieving wife.
'Quicksmart, you go back up to bed!

You're finished and will soon be dead.
I can't allow for you to take
a single piece. It's for the WAKE!