Dead Right.

Eulogies are hard to fit right.
Pine polish and bullshit, tingle the senses.
As wrong shaped words fight against the truth,
Bleeding lies, like troublesome menses.
Suited and booted stand next to black thralls.
All grumble prayers, rumble psalms.
Flaccid Rev shares slimy handshakes,
All have summer palms.
Johnny Cash strums.
As blue velvet curtains part,
For the coffin-coat to pass.
The men in the engine room pause lunch,
To crank-up the gas.
The suits and frocks duty is done.
Single-file they leave, dry-eyed
but relieved.
In eighty plus four years,
Nothing happened,
What had the dead man, ever achieved?