The Lunatic’s Funeral

We are gathered here today

to make fun of a man

who conducted himself

like a total buffoon,

spent all of his time

howling at the moon;

all the same, the poor fool

abandoned us too soon.

Where oh where

has our werewolf gone?

The driver of the truck 

that killed him sure is sorry;

he’s handed in the keys

to his broken-down lorry.

But at least our dear friend

no longer has to worry

about waking up with a face

all snarling and hairy

in the middle of the night

with a gal named Bloody Mary.

Now he’s buried in the track

suit that he got hit in.  The truck ran

him over; the tire tracks become him.

I know how sad we’ll feel

until he’s forgotten.

When someone brings his name up,

the other will feel rotten.

As we release him from life’s

insipid obligations,

let’s go back to our cars

and fuel up at the station.



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