The flowers all have scattered,
  borrowed feelings shout aloud

Mock funeral of celebration,
  grief false beneath their shrouds

The mourning congregation,
  to the tavern marched in step

A ruse to the departed,
  with each toast his memory wept

His friends then hugged his enemies,
  his wife and girlfriend kissed

Through the glass a raven watches,
  taking names without a miss

As ‘last call’ is shouted boldly,
  and all glasses drained of lies

Two wings beat out a roll call,
—death’s quota flying high

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)