World War II Book of the Deadbygreenmountaineer©
On a stone cold hilltop November night
In the year of our Lord and Katherine
Beneath a natty blue patchwork quilt
Katherine saw the ghost of St. James.
"Eleanor said you were battlefield dead,
But here you are in all your splendor,
Tapping your wing-tipped soul
To the sound of my metromoaning breath,
Wanting to play billiards in Paris, no doubt,
With its dance hall yes I can can ladies."
Eleanor's entrance cat pauses silence
To honor another death bed day
While dear sweet Katherine whispers good-bye
To stroll with James down the Champs Élysées.