The old man danced.
The young girl laughed.
The march at the morgue
made bleached bones jingle
to the tune of Gypsy Rose Thief.
You stood, rose in hand, smiling
like tomorrow’s funeral is a crazy
gig for my rock n’ roll friends
walking ten feet off Memphis.
I understand the sarcasm of it all,
I never could play a decent bar chord.
You pouted your nose when I demanded
cremation and some Floyd as a backdrop.
Why not baby? You could rhyme cremation nation,
might be that big storm we been waitin’ on
I’m digging this last wet breath as the world goes dark
I could have played that F bar with a little more work.