When I was a youngin’, I always was picked last,

An extra or set design for the ensemble cast.

My physical prowess was sadly nearly nought,

That is why at picking time my name was rarely caught.

After school I watched my friends all partner up with wives,

The third or fifth or seventh wheel, an add on to their lives.

I found love late and had my kids a couple years behind.

As they all dealt with teenage angst, I was molding little minds.

But being last for those things, simply can’t compare,

To the sadness of being last, when your loved ones are not there.

A call one fateful afternoon, whilst I worked away.

A lethal crash and I came home to an empty house that day.

Three caskets at the funeral, all in a neat line.

A macabre babushka of coffins made of pine.

The reaper chose to pick me last and live a life of curse,

So I wait for Death to come and free me from this Earth.