The death knell rings in the steeple,
and the funeral goers lace their shoes,
tie their ties, and affix their bows,
lined up, each one, in a row.
Their downcast eyes film over
and their hands interlace.
Each one drinks from a cup
a strange wine, lapping it up.
The last drop tickles the tongue,
in transit to the stomach,
where it eddies deep down
and is forever sown.
The bitter liquor of death
ferments in the soul.
The procession comes to a close
and the people migrate home.
Alas, the acetic taste lingers
and the wine stains their clothes.
Until, they tie their ties, affix their bows,
And once again line up in rows.
