Brizzi’s Funeral Home.

I don’t plan on going to Brizzi’s
three blocks from here. Where all
who’ve lived in this family house
of ours seem to end, as far back,
as I could remember.

I don’t plan on giving them the chance
to sell a suede lined coffin to my kids,
so I could rest comfortably throughout eternity
like the one brought for the wife
that record cold morning two days
before Christmas 1998.
My kids are assholes they’ll fall for
that same line of crap as I did.

I’m not giving them a chance to pitch
a flower car, so no one is insulted that
their flower’s weren’t picked to go
to the grave site, or an extra limo
to chauffeur third cousins.
Payback for wedding’s attended by
the wife and me, or arrange a High Holy Mass
(Whatever the hell that means).
At St Catherine’s, a church I was forced to attend
as a child and never went back to as an adult.

No I ain’t going to Brizzi’s shoot me up to
Deluie’s on Bay Parkway.
I always was a rebel.