The Family Skeleton Band Poem by Christopher Scherer

Please don't make my poor dead bones
A World Soil Bank deposit,
When they could find a better home
As a skeleton in someone's closet.

Hang me in there with cymbals,
Tied firm in my bony hands,
So I can play percussion
In The Family Skeleton Band.

Ol' Dad could play the jew's harp
And, Ma, the tambourine.
And sister could play the xylophone on
A ribcage that buzzards picked clean.

Brother could bang on his metal knee
And rattle his bones too much,
While the pets could all be the keyboards,
To add a melodic touch.

It could all be done with pulleys
And wires and ropes and such,
Latched fast to a closet door knob,
Just awaiting some silly putz.

The manager, hosting wild parties,
Invites all the swanks from 'round town;
Wines 'em and dines 'em and plays all the songs
At maximum stereo sound.

So, when some poor imbibing guest
Must needs of the pissoir room,
Should open the wrong water closet door
And be met with a mighty BOOM!

They'll all rush in to check on him,
On the floor where he's sure to lay.
And, if he lies dead from a heart attack,
Why, they'll give him a bone to play!

Why should only the Reaper grin
When we all make our final stand?
For, those who laugh loud and longest,
All play in the Skeleton Band.

We all could be playing percussion
In The Family Skeleton Band.
So, let's all go out playing percussion
In the Family Skeleton Band.

©1989 Chris Scherer