He's Just A Bug On My Lapel Poem by Mark Heathcote

Cancer choked her lungs.
Like a garden swallowed up in bindweeds
But she still had the beating of her wings.
Sang lives in a chorus between each coughing wheeze.

Yes, cancer took over her body.
But it couldn't hold her still.
A thunderbolt roars
And lightning flashes, at least until.

Death leaves her thin and stricken.
Skin and bone, but even then
There'll be some good things tomorrow, like wheat.
To make her cornmeal—amen!

Oh, cancer thinks he's made a friend.
He's a pied piper leading her to his den in hell.
But he's just a bug on her lapel.
Her coat is a little sub-cell she'll repel.

Cancer filled her lungs-
with a hailstorm, but she's the lightning.
The thunder in her coughing wheezes
It's her who's the current in the breeze-
Charged with bringing cancer to his knees.