How nice it must be to
lay in a bed you made yourself
To dance with death
and have salvaged your wealth
from underneath the soft
grass
Where you lay in solitude
with no one but daises
and buttercups growing above you
waltzing down the aisle
in the blessed church
of where sins are repented &
forgiven when you had the urge to
Go tell your father that
you’ve ran away with a gypsy and a jew
He’ll kneel for you when he
prays
He’ll kneel for you at his favourite pew
The one with enough light from the odd church window
that looked like it would crack
any time the wind blew

Oh, to be in a soft bed of earth and
sinking no further in than at the root of daisies and buttercups