“The Tragic Tale of Gloria Ray”

A poem.

Gloria Ray, an eighty-year-old waitress

died on a Friday

was mourned on Saturday

and on Sunday rose again

much to everyone’s dismay.

“I’m as surprised as anyone,” she said,

“I’m not sure what to think of it,

and, to be frank, I’m a little embarrassed.

I’m not very religious, you know,

except for holidays, of course.”

On Monday she was released,

On Tuesday she was mobbed.

On Wednesday she was denounced and worshipped

and hid herself away

On Thursday the press tracked her down

and suitably crucified her.

It should come as no surprise,

Least of all for poor Gloria,

that on Friday she died again —

savaged to shreds by an adoring flock.

On a far off mountain, an old man looked down at the world

And shook his head.

On the next day, knives fell from the sky

Millions, white-hot and razor-sharp.

What a way to go.