"...the question as old as the oldest profession, is there life after death, is still awaiting the final chapter to be written..."
Stop waiting, mate. The "final chapter," as you call it, has been written the moment apes turned into homo sapiens. It just that not every homo has read it yet! There is only nothingness! Not a darned sock! Oblivion!
The Tram
The tram runs like the exposed Philosophers run and Like the priests with Their acolytes and like the wh0res With their manicured morals And Like the Brain-blood of the House-trapped house- Wives and of the boss- Owned husbands.
From the depots of oblivion And back Again It receives, as the boudoir Cistern receives, thoughts of all sorts And Intentions from all directions and Uncouthly, chunders them out Again, stop by stop All the way to the Depot.
"Move along the tram, please, Move along, please, there are Others waiting to get on. Next stop Oblivion!"
Cap askew and money bag glued to his Belly this chirpy Conductor moves Sideways up and down amongst Pinned crabs.
