You know, I always thought Hemingway
He had a Romanian head on him.
Well, it had that bloated look to it,
And Romanian heads always
Look a bit soggy, I think;
And Hemingway had that in spades.
‘Course it might also be the drink
He never could pass a bar, could he?
Or it might be that time he landed on his head
In those two helicopter crashes he had
One after the other, the same day I think.
Split his skull open, they say
Exposed his innards to those African parasites;
Who knows what damage they did?
Rampaging around his grey matter.
Times like that tend to make you feel
That life’s a real bitch.
He never said much about it afterwards
Though that twinkle in his eye
Began to look more and more like a twitch.