Confessions of a Serial Poet

I once placed a globe at the head
of a man I made quite certain was dead
It seemed altogether fitting to place the world he was leaving
becide the body we would be greiving
I sat ther and sang a song
an ode to the irony and wished he would sing along
but he was silent in his voilent slumber
he looked like a blook soaked myrtar
I was either a saint or a lunatic
neither a sane decision
but my sanity is like restoring a painting
trying to get the original color right
i seem to be using to much red these days...
the effect I fear is lost somehow
I