In memory of Jason William Lee

HORACE THE HEARSE (By Jason Lee)
I’m Horace the hearse speeding off to the church,
I carry dead loved ones in coffins of birch.
At weekends I’m cleared of some wreaths and loose twigs,
then the guv loads the organ again for his gigs.
   Inside the old building six mourners await,
most all of them hoping that theirs will come late.
An atheist mutters “ just what is the point?
wherever I end up, no one will anoint.”
   Depressing to find we start out wiggly sperms,
and finish our time here as dinner for worms.
   The rest surely dreaming of grand pearly gates,
where Peter stands sternly assessing their fates..
Our priest at the altar his gown pressed of white,
one casket on gurney in dim candle-light.
   The Lord is my shepherd and I shall not want,
next Sunday again my chapped hands in the font.
   Box open, the corpse seems to stare up to space,
as if any moment ascending to grace.
A half-dozen perched-on-pews, shrouded in gloom,
they’re ready to send their old mate to his tomb.
   Cremation much cleaner, gets rid of that must,
fine ashes to ashes, more dust to the dust.
Is old-age well worth it when nobody phones ya,
and the only thing left is your whiff of ammonia?
   At back a young kid shouts brum ! brum ! with toy car,
then the wake after mass brings free drinks at the bar.
They’ll whisper tall tales of much banter with lies,
long after that body is home for the flies.
   Then rest in peace evermore, from all those heckles,
in garden of lichen, grown over with nettles.
   His widow can’t face it, such false smiles and farce,
Thinks “Maybe I’ll leave now and show them my arse”
She sits here inside me from wind and from weather,
her tear drops are spoiling my black polished leather.