That monument has left me here but
at least I'm not hanging. Like Nathan
Hale. Everywhere. Only a bit of this
there, and a bit of that there. And who
here really cares? My left boot was
torn at the strap, the leather wore
away from the stirrup - always
rubbing. They should make things
better in the future. If I'm still around.
Which I won't be, which is the point
of this poem, I suppose. My neck has
an appointment in Hades. You can ask
Sleeveless Steve when I'm gone.