Imagine Hemingway in Ketchum, Idaho, trying to finish
A Moveable Feast, the FBI after him, his powers failing,
the earthly vehicle giving out, after years of being ridden hard
and put away wet, four wives he has outlasted, or kept up with,
the last one broken, whipped, you can't treat people like that,
it comes back on you, you die, and they are alive, and in
the driver's seat. They have the last laugh.
They have half the money and all the pussy.
Now all the money too. You have bupkus.
Shining (or shivering) shitballs.
A 3" penis. At attention.
Now dust.