Death is always funny in the abstract….
News of my death will catch me unawares.
Unpacked and unprepared
I’ll be late for my own funeral,
Missing entirely the contemplation of my end.
I’ll doubtless have no change to pay the ferryman,
Having robbed Peter in order to pay the lone piper.
Who will play a mis-spelt Peabroch
over my expectant grave.
My Will will willingly clear my Bill, my Tab, my Slate;
And thus on taking leave of life,
I’ll leave my wife a large Debt of gratitude, And little Else;
my by-blow of a daughter, Begotten on a mid-wife,
Standing somewhere between my first wife and my last.
The sons of the Father, by which they mean Jesus and James,
Will be visited on the sons, obviously my sons, or my sins.
And I shall visit them myself, though not in earthly form,
but rather in the form of a shade. Though not a sun-shade
which is a useful garden furnishing,
But after dark as befits a shade,
a night-shade, though not a deadly one.
But dead nonetheless and trapped on the Western Shore,
For want of the wherewithall
to pay Charon the Ferryman,
Not Sharon the Ferry, man –
as Dylan would say
But the Boatman of the Styx,
friend and familiar of the Grim Reaper,
Whose task it was to warn me of my impending doom,
And leave no room for doubt,
by blowing out
My small and feeble light.