Four Epitaphs

Bild von Mitch Cohen

I don’t like it here under this rock;
No food, no drink, and I can’t even talk.

"God will preserve thee," soothed the apostle.
I died, and I wonder, "Perhaps as a fossil?"

Stranger, do not read this graven stone.
This is my death; you’ll have your own.

I didn’t want money, and I never had fame,
But I tasted the honey, and this was my name: