Benjamin Posted April 26, 2011 Share Posted April 26, 2011 (edited) With one hand on the polished coffin, the widow (great female,) was heard to say-- She had thought of cremation but didn't want him over-done. He was going 'that way' anyway. She'd fantasized castration: to have his 'bits' preserved as a door-knocker, (that she could ignore) for all those times he'd pestered her. She smiled behind the veil at prune-faced friends, who looked on all men with sharp disdain. The priest spoke (sanctimoniously) of someone unfamiliar. And I recalled what a friend of mine once said: "Can you please tell me where all the bad un's are laid?" A barmaid giggled at two dogs rutting over by the railings. And mourners (bloody hypocrites) wafted prayers like flatulence around the grave. They simpered at flowers and drank whisky---(free) from cups and bottles-- And a surge of relief came with the soft brown earth, as two world-weary prats patted it tightly. One broke wind: they both laughed, smoked a joint, and then left. Isn't it grand to be bloody dead. Edited April 26, 2011 by Benjamin Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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