and you will, you’ve about wrung
all of the adventure out of me
make it public, none of this
shovels in the night schtick
you don’t have to hire a preacher
a poet would be cheaper
and have more appropriate morals
tell him I was a cool facade
with a spicy undercarriage
if he doesn’t understand
you hired the wrong one
plug him and look again
the world won’t have lost much
when you have the right poet
tell him I could make you dance
after I made you forget
which foot was right
tell him I could make you buy me dresses
just so you could show me off in them
then take me some place private and peel them off me
tell him if you knew all the stories in the night sky
you wouldn’t have cared while getting one more of mine
tell him to make up something about me that you’ll like
and will make every woman at my funeral jealous
dress me up in pearls and that dress
that makes women wonder whether I’m a lady or a whore
pay the mortician extra
to set these girls up like you imagine them
then buy me the loudest, rowdiest wake you can
and if nobody commits suicide when you bury me
start over
and get it right that time
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