Ode to the Dead Next Door

Our new house is somewhat scary–
it’s right next to a cemetery!
There’s a gate where you go in,
it cuts through our back-yard fence.
Want to see dead next-of-kin?
I won’t keep you in suspense.


Once you’ve crossed the creepy threshold
there’s no turning back, my friend;
walk among the weathered gravestones
learn how people met their ends.


One succumbed to bad lumbago,
another—crushed by falling rocks.
This guy? Hit by a Winnebago,
knocked his shoes off—not his socks.


Here’s a woman, 50s homemaker,
filled with fervent hope within her.
And just how did she meet her maker?
Caught her pearls in a can opener.


This one was once a pro bowler,
succumbed in circumstances dire:
all that’s left of him is molars,
he got sucked into a hand dryer.

Down this row is an actuary
calculated lives by decimal points.
His home’s now the cemetery
that’s where he hangs round the joint.

If all this strikes you as quite ghoulish
it’s just the way we all will end.
Once we all were young and foolish
and then we all go round the bend.


2 thoughts on “Ode to the Dead Next Door

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