When Grandpa passed away, we heard
the undertaker cry,
“Where are his Gucci shoes and socks,
his silken shirt, his tie?”
“Our dear, departed always wear
the very best. I fear
if you don’t bring him proper garb,
you’ll never park him here!”
The undertaker fussed and growled,
but we prevailed, and fast.
Our Grandpa lies in peaceful sleep,
a pilgrim, home at last.
His vest, canary yellow and
his pants, unholy red,
I hope he makes a stir among
the prim and proper dead.
Published on September 1st, 2022
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