Did you ever notice, in "funeral", the much smaller word, Fun?
If there was a funeral for me, who would "from it" and who would "to it" run?
At 64 I'm overdue perhaps; why should I any longer stick around?
In our big paper dictionary, many as young or younger than I have died, I've found.
I've no wish for a funeral; burn me to ashes and be DONE!
But IF I had a funeral, I'd wish it were a bit of fun........
for me at least, and hopefully for all those who might come.
But it's usual, I think, for funeral-attendees to seem a little glum.
If I knew I could NOT avoid..... a public showing in a casket,
I'd want a convex mirror mounted near my head,... using tricks to mask it......
so I could see what was going on at my fun-final-farewell party, AND
to see who might show flowing tears, and who might show laughter, hearty.
Perhaps I'd see a sibling or two or three. I surely would hope not all four.
At least one (the oldest) , I think, would be practical and not attend; maybe more.
After all, why spend the money and time? They should all know me by now.
BUT I might understand, if they lived close by.....and if someone served free chow.
My ex-wives, if they had money, might show up well shoed and gloved,
and, if my wife saw my exes at my funeral, she'd be happy I'd been loved.
My stepdaughters might show up, thinking it the thing "to do".
And if their mom outlived me, they'd be closer to the money too.
I've got some old friends who'd wish me well, but I doubt they'd make the trip.
One cousin might show up; she and I were once "glued-at-the-hip".
My parents are long gone from this life; no funerals THEY had.
If I looked into my mirror and saw them not, I'd be neither glad nor sad.
My one and only child, if anyone, I'd hope to see in casket mirror.
I'd hope not to see her chuckling, but instead to see a tear.....
or two, but not many. She should know I'm satisfied to rest,
as I've taken my humanity course, and (I think) passed the test.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem