Now That Warren's Dead Poem by William McCully

Ahh, sweet Loraine
What shall we do?
Now that Zevon’s dead
Before he roamed the streets of Denver
He paced the pace of a dying man
Through history’s field of stubble
A heavy price to pay, I say
For the right to make last choices

If my life’s time was short and measured
I know what I would do
To that sacred cow
No clinging to the teats
Like a suckling babe
I’d rip and claw at her swollen udder
Till human kindness gushed
Upon the ground
And mingled with the manure and muck
Left by countless others