Death in shilling
It was one of those oratories on Sundays,
Walking down the narrow roads,
And into the foot of the hill
Borrowed backpack on my back
Full of cheap magic items
I was full of energy
But I was in for a strange Sunday
The poor hut an oratory
With its broken door shut
Bore a deserted look
I looked around for some life
And then I felt the tug at my sleeve
A tiny ward of mine looked up
Pulling me by the hand to the cliff
I saw a great crowd feasting
Everyone eating and drinking
Most of them red in the mouth
Betel leaves and limestone
Lots of laughter and banter
Lots of food and drinks in the hearse
Decorated with the best of shilling daisies
When I saw the old man laid out,
In his three-piece Sunday suit
I felt liberated unsure from what
Death primitively celebrated.
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