Anyone who truly knows me, is aware that I have a rather odd sense of humor. Healthy, but odd. All my life, I’ve searched for people who can appreciate it; if you get my jokes or even just recognize that I’m making a joke, more likely than not we’ll be friends. I tease the world relentlessly because I think it’s important to take life with a grain of salt-- Nobody’s getting out alive anyway, right? Heh.
Even typing this, I find it curious that there are very few people who are guaranteed to read what I am writing and with that in mind, it seems that I am writing this more for myself than any future audience. Which makes sense because I rarely write for anyone else. My writings are usually crafted just to allow a chuckle or two of my own to escape into the atmosphere; a bright bubble of me, myself, and I and our inside jokes, if you will.
Which is what this poem, Putting the ‘Fun’ Back in Funeral, is: an inside joke that I wish to share with you all. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always thought it to be strange that an event starting with the word “fun” would be made so sad. And at the end of the day, I think that ashes to ashes, dust to dust, a funeral should be a celebration of someone’s life, not an exhibit of an empty shell. So, in salute to the life and times of all my family, friends, and otherwise, please enjoy my tongue-in-cheek commentary on the Now and Then.
* Putting the ‘Fun’ Back in Funeral *
A few jokes to kick (it) off:
-What do you call a dead pirate?
DEseaSED
-A dead grey mare?
Dapple Turn-Over
-How do dead people communicate?
With techeulogy, duh.
Okay, okay so those might have been a bit of a stretch…g(r)oners even;
But I’ve hearse worse.
All funny bones aside, this really is a grave matter, but please, don’t let it Soylent your day.
This poem does shine some truth on one of two certainties in your life…
And I’ll give you a hint:
It’s not about taxes.
When people die, we cry.
But who are we sad for?
Ourselves
Or the dead?
Ourselves, obviously.
We are the ones left in the
Wake,
After all.
As for the dead,
What can THEY do?
If you ask ‘em, their answer won’t be the truth;
All they can do is lie.
Not to mention their jokes are stiff as all get out;
It’s like all the life’s been sucked right out of them.
No stories can tumble from their lips,
Though some have tumbled from stories.
(Sorry, that one kinda fell with a thud, didn’t it?)
However they ARE a deadringer for the perfect limbo partner
If you’re looking for one Hell of a good time.
Most just have an ear or a hand to lend,
(Depending, of course, in how long they’ve been tending to their daisies.)
But MUSICIANS! Now they’re really something.
If you listen closely, you can hear the best of them
Decomposing.
Resting souly on the liveliness of your sense of humor,
You may want to hang me out to dry for all of this.
“Casket out!” You say.
But of corpse I know
This is something everyone’s pined for.
And trust me, this is a message that
Styx with a body if you let it.
Death himself told me he puts morbid on it that anybody else.
