oh, death

bury me deep where the ground and all its inhabitants will work me into the soil, then grow pumpkins in the fertile ground, make sure if the bees aren’t doing their job to find the male flowers, gently take away the flower until the stamen is left, the flowers with the voluptuous bulbs attaching them to the vine are the females, rub the male within its not so secret folds and I, wherever the I resides in death, will laugh full belly laughs, for pumpkin sex is the most brilliant sex of all, for by the end of October a new shining face will grace a doorstep

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