A RIDE IN A HEARSE

There's nothing worse than riding in a hearse to a group of grievers and church believers to a brand new, never used before, grave dug and saved just for you.

While soldiers get set to shoot a salute and tax collectors wait to scoop up their loot and bookies and cut little cookies try not to cry and mourners get high on wine they didn't buy and flowers bloom throughout the gloom, mom and dad and sister Sue, the wife and kids who loved you true cry hysterically. There's nothing much you can do but lie there in your thousand buck box until the eulogies are through and the diggers cover you up with dirt and rocks.

That's how it goes when you lie in repose and folks gather around the cadaver, you, to bid a fond adieu. And all those memories die with you

When you went to war, smoked your first cigar, bought a brand new car, wed and went to bed with your brand new bride and tried to leave her satisfied, kids born---how fast their shoes were scuffed and worn, their jeans were faded and torn, the aggravation and gratification of their growing years---cold beers on a summer night, making love by the June moonlight, some things went wrong, some things went right.

Now you sleep at God's behest in nature's breast while those still alive await the date they'll keep with you at St. Peter's gate.