I know this fella
Craggy in all ways,
Lived up north
In La Brousse, named
Hank Humbada,
Like the Sumerian god
Alleged to protect forests,
spent fifty years, he said one morning,
"guiding sports and swells,"
forced to retire,
his body disintegrating.

Announced to me another day,
a Lucky Strike stuck
To his bottom lip,
"Crapshoot
Ta live this long,
ninety bloody nine, byjezzus,
no damn magic in round numbers
of perfect school attendance.
All this bull-crap talk of freedom
In life, what about death?
People trapped by law,
Puking random memories,
pissing in their diapers, held captive
by professional civility
and right-wing religolaws. 

Some die quick
Other linger
All of us getting
Random endings
Like coin flips
Heads or tails
Kick or receive?
We're all born nekkid
Inside another,
Part of someone at the start
Party of nothing at the end,
Passing alone
After standing at the plate
Awaiting god's pitches
In my case,
For ninety nine years,
Humbatta,Humbada.
Your last time at bat can be a long sumbitch
If you can foul off enough."