I'll probably die in my laboratory;
I love dangers of every category
Scalpels for slicing and dicing,
Poisons that smell so enticing
Machines that maim
and liquids that flame
I hope my end will be beautifully gory.

If my brain is fine (tho my body a mess),
I want my gray matter studied, I confess
So pack it up tight
and ship it overnight
to MIT via Priority Express.

Should the postal people fail,
And lose my mind in the mail,
It wouldn't be anything new.
For years, the postman's blown
my letters into the Twilight Zone,
and it's driven me mad, 'tis true.

But my ghost won't need to groan
If they abandon my carton
Under a desk in Wharton,
They'll be shocked to find
That my piece of mind
Will raise a stink on its own.