The Pathologist

The Pathologist ( An attempt at W. S's Post Mortem)

From her lavished home
Into the body bag!
From the body bag
Into the cold freezing plant!
There is more to it
Than the freezing of beers
That's for you to hear!

She was beautiful
Or so,
She had thought to herself!
But not anymore!
The reason for her leaving
And the manner for it
Must be known!

He was called in.
And again she moved
But she knows not that she moves!

Now, she moves
From the freezer
Onto the bier
Into the green room!
But she wasn't aware!
How futile!

He came in
Clad all in green.
Down came the scalpel
Tearing her up
Like a butcher with his knife!
He pulled and tugged
At dead intestines
At rotting food remains
At the bloating liver
At the motionless eyes
At more and more!

Then he took samples.
Samples that will tell
Or even untell
The cause of death
Of this once-upon-a-time beauty.

Looking at the once
Privately private body
That was gaily covered
And that no one
Could anyhow intrude.
Looking at all before him
He knew
Again and again
As in all other ones
That we are living
In futility!
We are but wastes!

His job is to find
The causes of deaths
Of this body and many more
Before and after.
But he thought
For how long more
Will he do it?
He knows his will be done
Then his man pike
A grub would have become!
But when will it be done?
Lots of deaths
He had helped demystify
But what will kill him?
He knows not.
He only knows
That one sure day
The Pathologist
A stiff will become!