The dos and don'ts of burying me
Let goods and kindred go.
Don’t, my townspeople, hype the hyphen,
Those fill-in-the-blah-blah-blank years
Between some b and its subsequent d.
No prattling on of how I scribble-shilled for salaries,
Of how I shuttled my several offspring thither
After quick stops at some hither or other,
Of how I ballpointed almost-subversive verse
Around potluck save-the-dates
In Baptist bulletins. None of that
Celebration of life la-tee-da I’m dead now.
Read our latest issue or browse back issues.
Neither gush how much I loved wife,
Daughter, son, daughter, son, Son
Of God and the 2016 Chicago Cubs with
Intermittently appropriate intensities.
No need to whitewash this tomb.
But do, my townspeople, articulate
The doctrine of alien righteousness
Over my corpus so lucidly
Lucifer can’t conceal
A lingering scowl and Luther
Gets one last jowl- jiggling laugh
As he Oktoberfest-sings, The just
Shall LIVE, shall LIVE, shall LIVE by faith.
Likewise, all of you sing My hope is built
On nothing less than Jesus’ blood
And righteousness and mean it
As much as I did at 16,
By which happy birthday
I’d already made a hash of mine own.
Next, do stand together and sing
And in and out of tune
In Christ Alone. Last
Read Hebrews 6:13–20
Loud as a street preacher
And know I made eternal book
On the existence / promise / oath
Of this God and it’s my pre-
Destined we are beggars ’tis true
Moment to see how this celebration
Of afterlife hallelujahs out.
