More shit poetry

The Funeral Party

White is his features,

Cold is his fingers,

Lying in a box in funeral attire dressed.

Gone is the laughter,

Here is the sadness,

Offer condolence to a widow distressed.

Bear the man slowly,

Lift the man gently,

Take him to a place where he may rest.

Short was his passing,

Long is his resting,

Sing out his praises and tell it in jest.

Warm to his memory,

Mention him fondly,

And say all this about a man you detest.