Unaccustomed As I Am To Rising From the Grave In Public

They placed me in a wooden box and then they put the lid on. They left me to shiver the cold night through and picked me up next day around eleven a.m. I heard dogs bark and children play, I heard sweet songs among the dirges; friends and relatives said such lovely things about me that afore were quite unheard of. Inevitably, old Uncle Jim came out with the one about the actress and the archbishop, and what the fallen woman said at confessional to a rabbi who'd taken over from the priest for the day in a spirit most ecumenical. Then the pall-bearers at last bore the box to the spot assigned for burial. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," said the reverend with solemn finality as they let down the box with me inside into the yawning cavity, and that, if you'll allow me add, with something akin to alacrity. Then just as he gave the final sign to set the spades showering earth down, I lifted the lid of the box where I lay, I said to the assembled all gasping and white: "Sorry to stop the proceedings so late in the day, but one assumption I challenge as completely unfounded, though it's been all too readily taken for granted: Far be it from me to cause an upset, but I think you should know-- I'M NOT DEAD YET!" Some of the assembled felt very let down and made no bones about it.