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“The Tragic Tale of Gloria Ray”
A poem.
Gloria Ray, an eighty-year-old waitress
died on a Friday
was mourned on Saturday
and on Sunday rose again
much to everyone’s dismay.
“I’m as surprised as anyone,” she said,
“I’m not sure what to think of it,
and, to be frank, I’m a little embarrassed.
I’m not very religious, you know,
except for holidays, of course.”
On Monday she was released,
On Tuesday she was mobbed.
On Wednesday she was denounced and worshipped
and hid herself away
On Thursday the press tracked her down
and suitably crucified her.
It should come as no surprise,
Least of all for poor Gloria,
that on Friday she died again —
savaged to shreds by an adoring flock.
On a far off mountain, an old man looked down at the world
And shook his head.
On the next day, knives fell from the sky
Millions, white-hot and razor-sharp.
What a way to go.
