Eulogy

Wtf? Poetry? From Me?

If I accomplish one thing in my life, let it be that someone somewhere requests that this be read/sung at their funeral while a dozen or so midgets dance and re-enact the Battle of Poltava using a steady flood of dirty water from an overflowing baptismal font to represent the Dneiper River.

I’ll record the piano part for you if you’re interested.

Come dear friends

It’s war in trenches again

The leaves are cold and damp

And we are hungry for life

Father Nell

Has lit a fire for us

His god is sharing his love

With men across the dark wastes

We are lonely

And we’re getting depressed

A sergeant puts on a dress

As they act in a play

The cannons fire at will

And then its suddenly still

17,000 men

Have sadly met their end

A river lazily flows

And thunder cracks and it snows

They’re lobbing poisonous apples

And we’re filling our satchels

These are the first days of your strife

These are the first days of your strife

Come, my friends

We’ll circle round the fire

The skin will crackle and peel

So we can finally feel

Father Nell

Has gone and done it again

He’s drowning his fear

In cups of tepid brandy

We are Lonely

But at least we’re not dead

Our rivals poke up their heads

From across the dark wastes

The cannons fire at will

And then its suddenly still

1700 men

Have sadly met their end

A river lazily flows

And thunder cracks and it snows

They’re lobbing poisonous apples

And we’re filling our satchels

These are the worst days of your strife

These are the worst days of your strife

Come, my friend

This is the bitter end

We’ve wasted all this time

Your lips taste like sour wine

Father Nell

Lies dead, still holding his bread

His face a mask of relief

His god is not to be found

We are lonely

But there’s hope in the haste

Our enemies wave their flags

And walk across the dark wastes

The cannons fire at will

And then its suddenly still

17 bitter men

Have sadly met their end

A river lazily flows

And thunder cracks and it snows

They’re lobbing poisonous apples

And we’re filling our satchels

These are the best days of your strife

These are the best days of your strife

Come, dear friends

Just like when weasels were in

We’ll laugh at goats on the fly

And sack the pansies that cry

Father Nell

Is living happy in hell

His parsonage is on fire

His pets are writing their wills

We are lonely

And we’re living a lie

These are not our friends

And this is not the end

The cannons fire at will

And then its suddenly still

One wasted man

Has sadly met his fans

A river lazily flows

And thunder cracks and it snows

They lob a poisonous apple

And he’s filling his satchel

These are the last days of his strife

These are the last days of his strife

 

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