Final Song Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

They called him Opa,
he was so....old.
He took l-dopa
and hoarded gold.
Behind each hedge
he saw a hider
it was his pledge
that a lone rider
from evil places
with devil's claws
was counting paces
avoiding flaws
so during sunrise
he flipped completely
this ain't no fun, guys
he folded neatly
and stretched supinely
he stopped his breath
then went divinely
to his own death.
You see the shock did
that morning sun
and like a mock kid
on his last run
he was the victim
of his own mind
which really tricked him
and fate was blind.
The final plea
which made him fail
was, on a tree
a nightingale.