BORE CHOKE-A.

IN A GRAVE, THERE IS NO WIGGLE ROOM.
NOBODY KNOWS YOU IN HELL.
THERE IS A COST TO BEING DEAD.
FOUR FINGERS, DEEP BURIAL, A HELPLESS LONGING.

FOR THIS NIGHT, AT TWILIGHT, I WILL BE LAID TO REST.
ALL OF YOU OUT THERE WHO KNOW ME, CALL MY PLACE AT 6PM.

THE EARTH WILL CRACKLE AND CAVE AT MY DEMISE.
MANKIND WILL FOREVER WORSHIP MY SPINE.
MY CORPSE WILL BECOME ANIMATED AFTER DEATH.
FOR 40 YEARS, MY SWEETENED BREATH DECAYS.

IN TOMBS, AGING, ACHING, SEARING AND SPITING.
FOOLING, SAVAGE SIGHING IN CAUSE OF
RESTING MY MIND INSIDE THAT OF A  DOOM KEY.
REALITY IS LOOMING.
THIS SATURDAY IS MY DOOMS DAY.

WAIT FOR 666 HOURS
THEN TALK TO MY GHOST WITH A SILENT WHISPER.
IF I CAN RESPOND, I WILL HOLD UP 4 FINGERS,
THEN COUGH AND RETURN AS THE
CORPSI THE VICTOR.

THIS IS ONLY A POEM, NOT A SUICIDE NOTE.