Dear Mr. Undertaker

Please mis-button my shirt
and make the jacket a size or two too small.
Diapers instead of pants,
and stuff my penis
for a beautiful bulge.

I'll need body-piercing,
a thick brass rod
going in one side of my head
and out the other.
Please etch tattoos all over.

Pull down the corners of my mouth
and put in a lit cigarette
labeled "The Eternal Flame."
On my feet the latest sneakers,
making sure they're covered with logos,
their rubber formed into shapes
like cake icing.

I would appreciate a sport coffin,
an aerodynamic wing on the back
and "Turbo" on the sides,
with ads for the sponsors of my death:
"Powered by Cancer,"
"XTreme Heart Disease"
and "Stroke: Ticket to the Beyond!"

Add bumper stickers:
pro- and anti-abortion,
and others proclaiming people and ideas
left, right and center
no better than Nazis.

Cash out any assets I have left
and stuff the bills in the casket,
visible to grievers.

All the rest should be paid for
with high-interest credit cards
and defaulted, then bankruptcy declared
with none of its stipulations complied with.

Weld the coffin shut after the viewing,
lower me to music chosen by
the least-interested philistine
and bury me deep.

When onlookers have gone
and I can relax
I'll give the devil a long hug,
squeeze out of the coffin,
percolate up through the ground,
emerge naked and new
and begin being nice to people.


2005 Mark Giffin