A poem featuring Mick Jagger....'It's got rhythm'.

It's got rhythm

We found Mick Jagger's corpse:

it was next to the computer,

tastefully screened by a curtain

with a William Morris print

Strawberry Thief, I think.

No foul play was involved

or even suspected.

I checked the paperwork.

Everything was in order,

The corpse was legally ours.

We noted the slim ankles,

sculpted, atheletic,

that had twitched and jived

through so many gigs.

We noticed the bulge in the crotch,

and considered, with

respectful wonderment,

all the places the limp gristle

it concealed, had been.

The face was an albino prune.

We nodded with interest

at the famous Jagger lips,

the saliva dried to a crust,

lips that had quivered and pouted,

sneered, drawled, kissed even.

We admired the hands,

the nails so perfectly manicured,

though the skin was now acquiring,

the texture of tripe.

On the third day,

the corpse started

to show signs  of  life,

the contents of the gut

fermenting we assumed.

But then the muscles

started moving too,

flexing and ticking.

It was all the rhythm

coming out.

It was then that we

grew afraid.

We drew the William Morris print

curtains, with care,

and tiptoed away.

All that rhythm

had to land somewhere.

At our age

it could be lethal.