I sat in my wheelchair and rolled across my
den to the high standing bookshelf..
Scattered throughout the shelf were dozens
of verses written quickly on scraps of paper
and used as bookmarks
I began fishing out all the snippets of verses
I'd planned to use in what was now to be my
last written work
For some thirty years I'd saved any flash insights
and bursts of inspiration I could use in my final
masterpiece
The doctor said he didn't expect me to live
throughout the week so I worked late into the
night
The old grandfather clock ticked away the final
hours of my life as my final poem began to take
definite shape
It was almost sunrise when suddenly I heard a
noise in the backroom
The sound of shattered glass sent me rolling to
my closet for my shotgun
But before I could load the gun I turned to see
a masked man pointing a revolver at my head
I clutched an excerpt of my poem in my right
hand and the last thing I remember is the shot
ringing out and my falling to the floor
Barely conscious the voices of policemen filled
the room
A policeman stooped down and pulled from my
hand the fragment of paper I was clutching
He read what was to be the title of my poem, 'A
good day to cry..'
But then I heard another voice calling my name..
It was the voice of my house maid
She kept saying, ' Everything is going to be alright
sir, you were not shot, you were just having a bad
dream
I awoke and realized I had merely fallen asleep after
a long night of writing
But the maid pulled a pistol from her purse and
with a devilish grin said, ' I've been waiting for
you to finish your poem because I have plans
to sell your work to my own publisher..
She pulled the trigger and shot me dead..
When she published my poem under her name
she merely changed the title which was now
called.. ' A Good Day to Die..'