This grave digger who lives 3 bus stops down from me
Often shares stories of his perilous job,
Me, being a certain romantic couldn't possibly resist,
He tells me how to find the right soil,
So that the body is comfortable down there till all of eternity,
What to say to the spirit, so it might not come back to haunt me
But most of all, he tells me how to mourn and pay respect with expertise
Not to cry or wail or be a snotty mess
Instead, to breathe a heavy sigh, throw in a handful of soil and be on your way
That's all I could remember, I never quite knew what to say or write anyway,
So the ghosts kept coming back to haunt me
But as I saw the tombstone of one mortimer blooming,
A romantic who thought he could change the world on his fingertip,
I sighed a deep heavy sigh,
Ignored the sheets of red velvet coming out of my wrists to keep my hands warm
and threw in a bit of soil, mixed with the shit and crimson of lost effort
Then I was off on my way, to the next paragraph break,
Maybe the ending there will be less so melodramatic