Six Laddish Days

Alright, I was wrong, they will bury him on Monday
Early in the morning they will walk that long distance
From here to the burial grounds and that will make
Sweating and palpitations because summer comes
Today, so there are two more nights of craps and ale
To endure, of high pitched men’s voices as if their balls
Hung from their throats, the women are ashamed
Of their menfolk, well, they are not my menfolk, won’t
I ever dream of one please if I want crap and spit then
They will be notified, it will be pink like a sow in oestrus.

Honestly, I don’t think he is in that box not after they suck
Out his blood and guts when he looked perfectly fine
Dead in his bed and then they pickle him, and why but
For six days of machismo, six laddish days, yes I whine
These rituals are such a pathetic excuse to be deceased
To be defiled so that your heirs can scuffle over a bequest
Of idle farmlands waiting to be sold for debts to be appeased
For new luxuries to be acquired like the chinaware, a chest
Of ersatz jewels and the widow never gets fucked she never
Needs that she has enough to pay the undertaker.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Saturday, February 7, 2015

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