from the pachydermic weight, the frantic exothermic state,
the pelvic phallocentric drive that urge
to spill and sprout and thrive
from countless collected human groins
coagulated, invigorated and soon we drop, contaminated;
post-last gasp, post-corporeal, post-haste,
post bleed and shit into
the fresh dug funeral pit,
which is where I make my grisly business:
Samuel Skerret, at your service.
With monogrammed silk hanky dabs your eyes,
With breathless tuts and polite surprise
Hears how your loved ones sadly died
And will with due discretion confide
That our coffins, bespoke, fit every size.
Circumspectly I might enquire,
After a rough estimate of your attire-
- Boots. Two inch heel. Leather. Gucci. Black.
- Tights. Sheer. Black. Chic seam runs up the calf past the knees' interior to the
- Skirt. Chiffon. Black. Stops at the thigh. Black.
- Top. Lace. Tight waisted. Generous bust. Black.
- Brassiere. Not black... Absent.
- Necklace. Silver chain. Small crystalline pendant. Well cut. Diamond? Quartz.
Which take -sme back to my previous devious line of inquiry;
"Did daddy leave behind much cash?"
Sounds like he had quite the crash- Oh-
On a purely incidental tangential-
Self-inflicted or accidental?
OH! No-no-no-no-NO, these questions are routine, the norm!
(Found on every life insurance form.)
Oh yes? He took out one of the more generous plans?
Crushed beneath an ambulance?
How droll- I said-
What a toll! the modern world takes on man-
Paramedic drunk at the wheel?
Out of court settlement, a hushed up deal?
Fear not, madam. Discretion is what we do
Do come, step into my office, Miss, that's
Samuel Skerret, at your service
Step right in, and let's do business.