The Poet's Autopsy Poem by John F. McCullagh

They found him, slumped over, in his small writer's garret.
There were no obvious signs of foul play.
No wounds, no abrasions or ligature marks
and just the faint hint of decay.

Later, laid out on a cold metal table,
No cause for his death could they find.
His arteries clean as twenty year olds.
His cholesterol levels all fine.

He didn't do drugs and he didn't drink beer.
His death was not self-inflicted.
His muse had abandoned him; took his will to live.
His demise could thus be predicted.

For a poet with have himself tied to a mast
To heard the sweet song of a Si-ren.
The loss of one's muse is a serious blow;
Look what it did to Lord Byron!