Funeral Blues (unedited poem)

Stop all the COCKS, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy BONE,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners COME.

Let aeroplanes circle MOANING overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the PUBIC doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday BREAST,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my DONG;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Fart in my face.
Fart in my face.
For the human race.
Put me in my fart face place.

-W.H. Auden

This guy was a real sick twist. I'm actually glad he had some editors, because this would have caused some serious problems at my school. I mean, what the hell are you talking about, W.H.? And what kind of name is that? Stands for Wackoff Hands. Old Wackoff Hands Auden with another dirty poem about his little fart fetish. Why do we let this guy have a typewriter? Still, I see what he's going for.

B.

-Eric Roach, Anderson Lawfer