I had them Day After Funeral Blues.
Dressed up in cold black shoes.
Dark in the whitened apse.
Stretching a long time lapse.
She was and now she’s ashes.
We had our times and bashes.
Life traits like garters tossed.
Turning old and sold with fingers crossed.
The solemn column filing out.
All of them soon dead, no doubt.
We are but an epoch’s tears,
bolstered by wine, fearing years.
While we party underground,
some say there are gnomes around.
