Buy The Farm Poem by Mavinda Cyril

Appalled by the oftenness
Of people cashing in chips,
I ponder o'er my odds, next
Time, mayhap my soul slips
Off into abstract void endless
Without tocsin, nor asking
Whether or not disposed
Grim Reaper comes, taxing
Life to sempiternal repose
Thus my mind works in
But what if there's choice,
And I'm somehow apprised
I'd wait with my poised
Life for that ultimate prize..

(It's Death's Caprice)