Feast of Chaos

The undertaker prepped him voguishly Like there was a party six feet below The earth where anosmic maggots Were tamed by steep fragrance He is dead, he is dead Of what use is a tinseling treasure To the naively rich sands? The gold plated casket glitters In the mourner's eyes How classy is death in its house? A gang of aggrieved groupies Hallowed to a one time Shylock-baron unleashes its ruckuses At the swanky funeral They teemed tiny shell At the casket and in a tick The casket transmuted into A gold plated basket He is dead, he is dead The bullets ran its errands Through and through But death was poker faced The deceased wife face streamed Down tears...The triumphant groupies Prod the remains for mockery Until wee in the day When the police came for a sweep The shylock-baron was in a feast- Romance with the houseflies... Until the groupies dispersed He is dead, he is dead He who dies once is lucky But he who dies again has lost his soul And would be damned What was his crime? That he was having More than he needs.