Pals

 Take a hold now
On the silver handles here,
Six silver handles,
One for each of his old pals.

Take hold
And lift him down the stairs,
Put him on the rollers
Over the floor of the hearse.

Take him on the last haul,
To the cold straight house,
The level even house,
To the last house of all.

 The dead say nothing
 And the dead know much
 And the dead hold under their tongues
 A locked-up story.

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