In an earlier post I wrote about my dad and how much I loved him. Not everyone is so lucky. John Ahearn, the poet, told me once that his dad was so ornery and mean that at his funeral people queued up to piss on his grave. I assumed he was speaking metaphorically but I still felt really saddened and sorry for John. Now I discover he has written a poem about the funeral and I have to say it absolutely cracked me up. I just couldn't stop laughing. See what you think.
by John Ahearn
The line to mark your grave was long,
but it was worth it for the songs
the vagabond musicians played.
The drunky standup comic slayed.
The acrobats went on a bit,
although we got to dip our beaks,
and then when everyone was lit
we took our long-awaited leaks
in all directions, pissing free,
pissing easy, women and men:
your grass will never grow again.
Wasted piss, it seemed to me:
“People! Folks! Decorum, please.
Urine’s toxic to the trees--
his face is there, let’s aim for that.”
We hit the spot I pointed at,
and were rewarded for our pains:
each of us could plainly hear
your whingeing, crapulent remains
condemning the diluted beer.