We Regret to Inform You of a Funeral Cancellation
#56 of poetry
Once again, a chance remark from PascalFarful sprouted into a poem.
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Well a couple mourners gathered, and a bunch more came to stare.
Course all the casual killers came, who'd left him lying there.
They bought a discount casket and a requiem was said
For the funeral was scheduled, for burying the dead.
Well the preacher called for piety and prayers for the deceased
Till the gravedigger came running, for to interrupt the priest.
Then the undertaker turned, his face all ashes, and he said
"Afraid the funeral's canceled. He ain't dead."
Well we hurried to the graveyard. This was probably joyous news.
But the funeral party weren't so much 'joyous' as 'confused.'
The preacher led the way and tried to pray away the dread.
The funeral was canceled. He ain't dead.
The grave was standing open, the casket there beside
But both entirely empty, not a single thing inside.
Must've climbed out of the coffin, left a mystery there instead:
The funeral was canceled. He aint dead.
"I saw him, fer a moment," the gravedigger confessed
"A-striding toward the hilltops, makin west, or west-northwest.
He didn't give no answer, he just turned and shook his head.
S'when I knew the funeral's canceled. He ain't dead."
Now the undertaker's furious. Preacher looks like he might cry.
But the widow-woman's risen, with a fire in her eye.
She's dropped her veil and walked away, and not a word she said,
But "Go home, funeral's canceled. He ain't dead."
Well I guess you've heard of stories of this sort of thing before.
Don't they still retain the relics of the shroud St. Lazarus wore?
There's Balder, and there's Orpheus: went where live souls fear to tread,
They had their funerals canceled. They weren't dead.
I remember last I saw him, on the gallows, in the dust.
A calm was on the crossroads where we do the things we must.
And we all knew he was innocent, no crimes upon his head,
But his funeral was ready. So we made sure he was dead.
I suppose he's out there somewhere. Maybe I'll go find him now.
I promise when I see him I'll be sure to ask him how,
And whether it's a curse or blessing his death has consecrated,
And what it is that moves a man when life is fully fled...
Just like Madeline in the Garden: "Touch me not," as someone said.
Now you go cancel my funeral.
I ain't dead.