I hate funeral parlors....
Never want to be the object
Of morose attention.
Sobbing, weeping, wailing, moaning
Mourners. Not to mention
All the things the undertakers
Do to violate the dead.
Filling them with fluids...
Pancaked cheeks of phony red.
Remembrance is in the heart,
Not lying in a box of steel.
Respects are paid conveying to the
living
How we truly feel.
In the last analysis,
Though it be cause to cry,
There's really nothing left to say
Except a silent, fond goodbye.
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