The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
Mr. Joy in His Casket
by
Daniel W. Kneip
Mr. Joy, who was not playful or fun,
Who had a mean streak the size of a cinnamon bun,
And whose favorite words were: "There's work to be done,"
Finally lied still in his casket.
Weathered and sickly and always the bore,
He was sneaky and rotten right down to the core!
Why, he once stole the cheese from a mousetrap's trap door!
Now he finally lies still in his casket.
But his death surely came in the fall of the night,
When madness pursued Mr. Joy with the fright,
Of a thousand cloaked witches clattering in delight,
Seeing him still in his casket.
He'd been walking along a cobblestone path,
When a bird swooped right down so hell bent on wrath,
That it pecked at Joy's face in a real blood bath.
And flew off with Mr. Joy's left eyeball!
The old miser was rushed to the infirmary,
Where awaited a doctor and young nurses three,
Who were so stricken at the sight of Mr. Joy's misery,
They did hope he'd lie still in his casket.
Bandaged and sewn the best that he could,
The doctor presented an eyeball of wood,
"To wear in your socket, it might do some good."
But it only lies still in that casket.
So blind and confused, Mr. Joy headed back,
To his lonesome abode but he tripped on a crack,
And split his skull open on a magazine rack,
And now he lies still in his casket.
A cold chill doth blow o'er the cemetery lawn.
There's a tree with a branch that an old bird sits upon,
And it stares at the stones of the lives now long gone,
And it discovers the grave to which Mr. Joy belongs,
And it flitters down to the plot and pukes up that eyeball.
And Mr. Joy raucously turns in his casket.
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work
