The Funerals Of The Down To Earth World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Too many things no longer much fun,
The rusting barrel of a worthless pop gun;
And I can’t remember when they used to
Be much fun,
The beautiful people sharing themselves under
The god-endowed sun:
I don’t blame them, my mother’s slick swears-
Those little seeds they were just meant to happy
The earth for the time spent tapping toes
And wrist watches, expecting the hearse unawares:
It will come any time now,
Chauffeuring the embalmed; and the houses
In shot-gunning rows will
Blister and howl underneath the apathetic sums
As they does them tricks around the world,
Those strangely luckier boys and them
Oh so sweetly distracting girls-
They sure will filigree mighty brightly the funerals
Of the down to earth world.