The Best Funeral Ever

We came clad in white suits, With crocodile skin made boots Alongside a funky dressed lady each, For bravery during the time of speech. To make us happy couples of four. They weren't our wives, wives what for? Tom just laid in there. Eyes closed as if he didn't care. They called his name out, he didn’t respond. They trolled his stout wife, he didn’t respond. He just laid in black suit and white gloves, In rigor mortis as his chauffeur released the white doves. The white doves represented the cars he drove, To us, the number of white women he did love. The other fleet was metaphored by the black steeds That drew his glass coffin from his garden of weeds, Indeed, he was a man of peculiar needs. Sometimes, he even slept with his maids. You'd think he had his heaven on earth But on his life end was hell's wrath He cared less for anything on earth Only ailment humbled him to his demise. The doctor told him that he had three years Before cancer took him to the skies. If only his wife couldn't have fed him lies, He could have known that he had no kids And could have died earlier in smoke of weeds. "He would have liked to be buried in the sky" Michael whispered, though his voice was high. We all believed the lies he fed, Except that his wife was good in bed. We knew what he couldn’t have known, We explored the treasure-fields of his own. Surely if he finds out all this, He is not going to rest in peace,