12-08-2013, 12:24 PM
When the Fat Lady Sings
And it’s time, I would like
music to murder me, maybe
something elegant like Chopin;
any lyrics would be pre-written;
after all, I wouldn’t want
people at my funeral
merely humming, or worse,
tapping scuffed shoes
to the wordless tune of a life
I’d rather die with a song
in my head: something with violins--
like cricket legs softly rubbing
on the first frost of October--
a white haired preacher
with a thin baton, and Jesus
Christ at the back door, making
sure no one leaves early
And it’s time, I would like
music to murder me, maybe
something elegant like Chopin;
any lyrics would be pre-written;
after all, I wouldn’t want
people at my funeral
merely humming, or worse,
tapping scuffed shoes
to the wordless tune of a life
I’d rather die with a song
in my head: something with violins--
like cricket legs softly rubbing
on the first frost of October--
a white haired preacher
with a thin baton, and Jesus
Christ at the back door, making
sure no one leaves early