The flowers all have scattered,
borrowed feelings shout aloud
Mock funeral of celebration,
grief false beneath their shrouds
The mourning congregation,
to the tavern marched in step
A ruse to the departed,
with each toast his memory wept
His friends then hugged his enemies,
his wife and girlfriend kissed
Through the glass a raven watches,
taking names without a miss
As ‘last call’ is shouted boldly,
and all glasses drained of lies
Two wings beat out a roll call,
—death’s quota flying high
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)