We’ve gathered here to say goodbye
to yet another boring guy,
kept on yelling for attention
till it gave him hypertension.
Now in the box beneath the shroud
he’s got the eye of all the crowd,
best leading role he ever had,
but no applause and no one’s sad.
Old mourners sprinkle ancient pews,
ill fitting suits and pee-stained trews,
some glasses, dentures, aching backs
with makeup plastered in the cracks.
They kneel for prayers on creaking limbs
then silent lips mouth unknown hymns.
The dead man’s peers in church are few.
Who pays respects where none seem due?
His painted widow in her weeds
now wonders who will sate her needs
with hubby just about to burn
and end up ashes in an urn.
She never grudged the man his health,
content enough to share the wealth,
but pleased this sudden turn of fate
serves up his helping on a plate.
Poor vicar wonders what to say.
about this stiff that’s come his way.
He’s no great speeches in reserve
just... bless a saint and damn a perv.
He settles for the standard rite
then tells the crowd they’ll be all right,
“beyond the stars lie happy lands,
so love your neighbour all shake hands.”
Corpse’ brother sitting cap in hand,
chief mourner in this dismal band,
now ponders on the decent wait
before a widow has a date.
Just wants to get her into bed
but cash and sex means getting wed,
been dodging that since leaving school
concludes that life is Goddamn cruel.
Sister of the spurned cadaver
cannot stand all this palaver.
She didn't like the man in life,
all flashy cars and tarty wife.
Deep down she’s feeling rather chuffed
for all his din he quietly snuffed.
Same cap fits the other brother,
clone of father, not his mother.
This woman weeping by the door
floats back in time to years of yore,
dreams of a lovely friend at school,
so kind and gentle fun and cool,
who shared a secret both held tight
that seemed to change him overnight.
He truly was a super lad
until abused by evil dad.