Playing Dead Poem by Andrew Hudgins
Playing Dead
Our father liked to play a game.
He played that he was dead.
He took his thick black glasses off
and stretched out on the bed.
He wouldn't twitch and didn't snore
or move in any way.
He didn't even seem to breathe!
We asked, Are you okay?
We tickled fingers up and down
his huge, pink, stinky feet—
He didn't move; he lay as still
as last year's parakeet.
We pushed our fingers up his nose,
and wiggled them inside—
Next, we peeled his eyelids back.
Are you okay? we cried.
I really thought he might be dead
and not just playing possum,
because his eyeballs didn't twitch
when I slid my tongue across 'em.
He's dead, we sobbed—but to be sure,
I jabbed him in the jewels.
He rose, like Jesus, from the dead,
though I don't think Jesus drools.
His right hand lashed both right and left.
His left hand clutched his scrotum.
And the words he yelled—I know damn well
I'm way too young to quote 'em.
Death Oh! No dead But alive in the stagnant human conscience.../// great
Good entertainment reading the poem. Thanks for sharing,10 points.
Beautiful poem indeed. Packed with fun and suspense. Loved it.
I smiled and laughed aloud at this one—which is what a humorous poem should do. Good one! -Glen
A nice inscription has been made on Playing Dead. Beautiful poem really.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 4:21:19 PM # 1.0.0.1119
His topics go from this ludicrous verse to the power and glory of Steppingstone? Color me puzzled by this poem's presence here.