Meth, be Not Proud…
Salvaged from a ratty old notebook of John Donne upon his death bed.
Meth, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art quite so;
For those whom thou knowest thou dost overthrow
Die hard. King Meth, how yet can thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, thy stimulation be,
Much pleasure; then from thee let much more flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Devour their bones, and teeth so eloquently.
Thou art God of fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
So art we poisoned underneath your wakeful spell,
And neither poppy nor charms will let us sleep as well
We may even have a stroke; why swell’st thou then?
With one quick hit blast, we wake eternally
And death shall be our fate; while Meth shalt never die.
Bless me friends as fate doth call me heavenward. Alas, this wondrous new chemical I embraced has conquered me, while yet blessing me with the vim and vigor to rise from my sickbed to give one last sermon as well as stay up all night cleaning the house. At least I needn’t feel guilty that I died leaving a frightful mess…just a frightful overdose of meth. And now, Dear Watson, the needle!~j.d.