When my ticker sounds the death knell
for my terrestrial clock, don't let my veins
run dry from spilling out their crimson pith
into an austere, steel-slated of draining furrows.
My sallow clay doesn't want to be infused
with embalming fluids that I find of no use!
I'm not a fickle sardine, destined to be stuffed
in an overpriced box of varnished spruce!
When my terminal breath finally expires,
(&my first imperative is adhered to)don't even
try to entertain the idea of feeding my insensate body
into the inexorable jaws of a lead-welded shark,
thus reducing the most consecrated creation
in all the known universe to a tawdry dedication!
My bone spalls&moldering embers of soot
have no desire to depart on a window sill vacation!
When my limbs grow as stiff as a 2x4&
are rife with the inert vestiges of rigor mortis,
(&my body is omitted from the formal solemnities
of our intrinsic conceit)send this stiff off to the plains
of Africa&toss me into the heart of a lion's den--
I pray my crimson tonic drips from Simba's sated chin!
Better yet, just cast me out on a trawl line into the wild Pacific
in a sea of bloody chum so I can coddle the great white fins!
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