Death is highly overrated.
I’ll tell you that right now.
Especially now in the wintertime
With ice and snow and all.
I know this is not poetic stuff.
I know it’s much too blunt.
No true poet would do it,
Perform such a silly stunt.
When I pass the cemetery
Down the road from here,
I put my ear against the frozen earth
And rattling bones I hear.
I heard a voice just yesterday,
“What happened to the sun?
Buried in this frozen earth
Is certainly is not much fun.”
Another voice said something else,
Something I didn’t want to hear.
“Freezing my arse is one bad thing,
But the skin worm died in my ears.”
I had enough of those voices,
Squealing from the grave.
Rattling, rattling those freezing bones,
Why can’t the dead behave?
When old Bill Jinks called up to me,
“John, send down a kerosene heater!
But if you have a whiskey flask
That would be even neater.”
So I poured whiskey on his grave,
That cold spot in the earth.
I listen carefully for a while.
I’m sure I heard him burp.
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