“A drop of ointment is enough for embalment,
The cost of living is not for the dead’s enchantment…”
His apprentice hummed to himself the master’s favorite tenet
The graying skin puffed with rot from the dermis within
Make-up artist tries one last time to cloak the mushiness still
Caked in multiple layers of browning chalk, yet unyielding it seemed
The grandcrier of the troupe lunged forth the coffin
Shedding reptilian tears purged by a clove of onion handy
Gazing deep at the stranger wishing that he could have known her
Imagining the man dead was her father, husband or brother
She even recalled memories of when she was much younger
The night her uncle accused her of witchcraft and burnt up her fingers
Anything she could do just to moist up her tear glands
The arsenal of pepper, Robb and Mentholatum starting to fail now
Perhaps another shot of pure water could help in the matter
The spraypainter sat in the crowd perplexed more than angered
A bill for the plastic watch he had silverned, adorned by the carcass
Sparingly had he grazed on his paint that the cost be cheaper
The high table gleamed from bottles of very dear Cognac and Champagne
Among the family members sat the winer ever unfazed
Taking stock of the vine table, staving unforseens and mistakes
Ushers guarded guests to the “ogogoro” kegs just in case
Lest some drunken fool pops a Möet off of their pay
Lesson the master taught never taken in vain
Bellows from the tethered rubenesque bulls died off at morning
Metamorphosed into sheets of fried Titus fish mingled in seasoning
The herdsmen criticized bull renting, but the cash deposits helped them adore it.
A cue signaled by the apprentice sends a young woman screaming
Clasping her head, wrapper in the air exposing underwear, “Why?! Why?!! O God, why this?!
Stamping his feet left then right, a colleague sways and collapses
Priest stares at his watch rehearsing his eulogy again
The next burial was just a kilometre too far for this time waste
Same chapter, same verse, same sermon: “Ashes to ashes…” he prays
Dust comes pouring over plastic shoutings and wails
The undertaker looks on in dead silence, nothing to say
Watching his own abused body interred in his grave.
Nejeeb Bello (27-11-2010).