Death of the General

Death of the General                                           December 16, 2005

Driving down the road, 

Listening to some tunes, 

Hearing a loud pop, 

A sound I dread. 

I pull over, frightened, 

But I don't know why 

When I already know the answer. 

The General died on me. 

That bastard. 

He couldn't have lived on 

For a few more measly miles 

So I could make it from Point A 

To Point B. 

And so it is with this dead bastard 

That has left me wrathful. 

I turn him loose and find 

That has been stabbed 

By someone's nail left 

In that winding black river of asphalt 

On which I drive. 

I ponder this: Why couldn't he have the sense 

To move away from the pending danger? 

Didn't his mama ever teach him 

To stay away from sharp objects? 

Oh. I forgot. The General is a bastard. 

Alas, the show must go on. 

I appoint a temporary officer to pull rank 

Whilst I search for a more long term answer. 

After that, I play the part of the undertaker 

By dumping his sorry round ass into the trunk 

And read him his last rites. 

With this, I enter the hearse 

And drive toward the funeral home. 

I want to kick him so badly because he couldn't hold up, 

But he was such a cheap bastard. 

I guess that means 

Some of the blame belongs to me 

Since I simply wasn't willing to pay more.