Death by Ebola

Ebola: My Beautiful Murderess

Here is a poem about how I died of Ebola, kind of.


I was wrongo in the Congo buddy

Let me tell you

Twenty K north of base camp

With a nervous hunchback

And a heart full of grief.


“Don’t go in the caves, friend”

He said, so, of course, I went in the caves.


Two hours later my eyes went ‘snick’ (in a bad way)

My spleen fell noisily into my pants

And my stomach wrote a letter of complaint

To the British embassy.

My nose fell off my face

Revealing a bony crevice

Of unsettling dimensions.

The hunchback screamed “Skellington”

Shat himself, then shot himself.

My testicles swelled to the size of zeppelins

Then crashed fierily like the Hindenberg

Onto the forest floor.

I did a sort of involuntary dance

Which the locals called

“The March of the Decomposing Caucasoid”,

A title with a kind of poetry to it,

I felt.


Eventually a pro-euthanasia parrot

Put me out of my misery

By pecking me to death at point blank range.


Phewee, buddy.

Close call.

I came this close to dying of Ebola.


3 Responses to “Death by Ebola”

  1. oldrope Says:

    But you cant trust those parrots, they have shares in the ebola companies. Just so that they can rake it in at a later date in the euthy clins.

  2. jlebaptiste Says:

    Someone’s been reading the conspiracies section of the Daily Vulva again.

  3. oldrope Says:

    The Vulva is a credible paper, why will you not believe me?

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