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Lazarus

David J. Thompson

You’ve probably heard of me.
My name is Lazarus. I felt like hell
for years – achy all the time, nasty cough,
couldn’t keep food down, trouble breathing.
Add to that my two nutty sisters, Martha
and Mary, who just drive me absolutely crazy.
It’s no wonder neither of them can find a husband,
and get out of my hair, they’re too busy following
this new Jesus The Savior guy around. They brought him
by one weekend and he was okay, kind of quiet,
didn’t eat or drink too much, but I didn’t see
what the big deal was. I was really hoping
he was going to take one of them off my hands,
but he just told me he was sorry I was feeling
so bad and to hang in there, and then he was gone
wandering around again. That’s when I got a lot worse,
started coughing up lots of blood and finally, thank god,
I got to die, and I’m telling you, it was great.
No pain, no job to go to, real quiet and cool
down in the grave. Then, after only four days,
it seemed a helluva lot shorter, the next thing I know
I’m being yanked out of there by good ol’ Jesus,
and I’m all wrapped up like the mummy,
and everybody’s yelling and screaming and happy
except me. Of course, now, Jesus is long gone,
but I still feel like crap and I saw some blood
on my pillowcase this morning, so I guess now
I have to die all over again and that’s really going
to suck. I was afraid that when I die again real soon,
my sisters would run and get Jesus to ruin all my peace
and quiet again, but I heard just the other day
the Romans finally caught up with him
and plan to nail him to the cross quick as they can,
and, frankly, I don’t blame them one little bit.
Why can’t these religious nuts just leave
the rest of us well enough alone?

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