It's got rhythm
We found Mick Jagger's corpse:
it was next to the computer,
tastefully screened by a curtain
with a William Morris print
Strawberry Thief, I think.
No foul play was involved
or even suspected.
I checked the paperwork.
Everything was in order,
The corpse was legally ours.
We noted the slim ankles,
sculpted, atheletic,
that had twitched and jived
through so many gigs.
We noticed the bulge in the crotch,
and considered, with
respectful wonderment,
all the places the limp gristle
it concealed, had been.
The face was an albino prune.
We nodded with interest
at the famous Jagger lips,
the saliva dried to a crust,
lips that had quivered and pouted,
sneered, drawled, kissed even.
We admired the hands,
the nails so perfectly manicured,
though the skin was now acquiring,
the texture of tripe.
On the third day,
the corpse started
to show signs of life,
the contents of the gut
fermenting we assumed.
But then the muscles
started moving too,
flexing and ticking.
It was all the rhythm
coming out.
It was then that we
grew afraid.
We drew the William Morris print
curtains, with care,
and tiptoed away.
All that rhythm
had to land somewhere.
At our age
it could be lethal.
