After the doctor had gone,
a sunny day in May,
two men, in sober black and a gipsy woman
with dangling earrings came.
In the room, rarely used,
they dressed him in a blue suit, green tie,
white shirt and polished brown shoes.
Put him in the coffin, placed on a long,
collapsible table they had brought.

The woman went to work,
made him up till he looked like a depraved dyke.
A giggle I couldn’t suppress came on,
went to the loo,
the others thought I wanted to be manly and sob alone.
The villagers came to pay their respect,
women wept and crossed themselves,
the men were glazy eyed and drunk.

Next day we drove to the cemetery it wasn’t long,
Men wore black hats
which they didn’t take off
for the sun shone hot, women cried.
The ritual was short
the priest did his stuff
and sprinkled water about.
A breeze gently blew, sifted dust and told of futility,
yet relentless life soon filled the space my dear friend had occupied.