Don't ever laugh as the Hearse slowly drives by,
Cause it may very well be you,
that is the next one to die,
Unwillingly filled with formaldehyde,
Flushing your veins and preserving your hide.

Placed in a pine box, and dropped in the ground,
With your still grieving family, all huddled around.
The tapping of roses, as they're dropped down below,
Then the sounds of the shovels, like feet through the snow.

And sure, you'll be fine, for a week, maybe two.
But soon you'll be a gooey brown pus flavoured stew.
And the cheap pine wood box, it buckles from stress,
And the bugs make a home, in the mess of your chest.

And the maggots they feast, on what used to be toes,
As the centipedes crawl out and inside your nose.
As your stomach, it swells, and it leaks like a tap,
As the contents spill out and slide into your lap.
And the stench oh the stench, none like it is worse,
It gets into your nose, and hangs around like a curse.

And as the summers go by, not a rose didn't rot.
You're all but some bones, and some clothes in a box
The bugs had their fill, of marrow and mince,
It's all the same truth, be you pauper or Prince.
© James Moynihan