Something to Chew On

Is this apple pink
Or are my gums bleeding?
Is that dandruff in my glass?
How much of the food I eat
Is just me all over again?
(All my bone and sinew,
Or at least dead skin.)
They say we’re still breathing
Julius Caesar’s dust,
But I’ve yet to see
Imperical evidence.

(The pun here conceived
Under the assumption,
Erroneous, apparently,
That “imperical” is itself a word,
With all the rights thereof,
And not merely a misspelling;
Nevertheless, the pun remains.)

And that’s not to mention the ashes
Of Keith Richards’s father,
Recirculating now (along with some coke)—
Or would be, if the story were true,
Which of course it isn’t,
Except in the mind of everyone
Who ever heard it (and maybe
In their lungs too—who knows?)

Well, the apple tasted fine,
And if nothing else,
I’m no more or less myself.