One day,

(being so clever)

I simply decided not to die.

You see -

Death just isn't for me.

I instead will watch others,

feigning their acceptance.

And wonder if Pope Benedict will kindly compete with me.

I will grow old,

and tired.

My skin will fold.

And after all this I'll wish to have had smaller breasts.

And Benedict will meet me at the cemetery gates.

Our chins resting on wrought iron,

he will tell me of his past sins,

and we will watch two generations.

"I refuse to be number three."

His head will nod,

"Yes, I agree."

AN: I rewrote this. I need massive thoughts on it. I seriously need to do some revising, so if anyone has any thoughts than please share. I'm just not very happy with it. Please review.