Wallace

I know what you were up to,
And I have learned the meaning of concupiscent.

My relatives are from Clarksville, Tennessee,
And I very much doubt they give a rat's ass about the jar you placed there,
Nor have taken note.

Try this:

The cat is dead. I saw it. It had been flattened by a car. I found it when I came home from school. It was disturbing to see. No ice cream. Nor snowy branches. Nor Sunday mornings.

Only death in yellow furry flatness.

Oh, Wallace. Damned cat.

But my songs do not sing. 
Sing them, then.
But the bells do not ring.
Ring them then.
But the birds do not sing.
Shoot them, then.
But the graves do not sting.
Loot them, then. 

Oh how brave to proffer theology in the guise of a poem.