In Memory of Kurt Cobain
You paid a man to rub me out
and said it was a suicide.
Enough people believed your take–
the press, police, your growing
avalanche of fans–that you could
get away with murder,
along with millions of dollars
I didn’t care for anyway
and the rights to all my songs.
No surprise that you should
share a birthday with O.J.
You said later in an interview
you wished you’d never married me.
I’d say the feeling was mutual
if I weren’t speechless
from twenty years of being dead.
I guess my understated revenge,
a grudging substitute for justice,
is that you’re already a has-been;
losing all that glamor must feel
worse than life in the slammer.
No wonder you chose to call
your first album with Hole
Live Through This.
At least one of us did.