If I Die In Winter
By Charles Thomas
Don’t arrange the funeral before ten on a Saturday morning
It’s cold in winter; let the poor buggers who’ve got to come
Snuggle a little longer. I know I’d wish to
And try to make the whole thing at least
Entertaining
—And, sure, sombre too if you have to
I’d be dead a lot happier
Knowing it was sombre-but-entertaining-entertaining-but-sombre
And don’t arrange a burial
Whatever you do no burial
It’s wet in winter; let the poor buggers who’ve got to come
Stay huddled together inside a building—even a church-building will do
Some place where it’s at least not wet
And no praises, please
Please, no praises
Whatever you do, no praises
Not that I’m undeserving
But in my life, every good I’ve ever done
Has been cancelled out by the un-good I’ve ever done
If you have to sing any praises
Then do it for my heroes—
Trotsky, Lenin, Marx and Engels
Steinbeck, Hemingway
And maybe Neruda
In fact, especially Neruda—sing his praises to the heights of Macchu Picchu.
Warm snacks for the after-party, yummy!
I’d like a winter death
For the warm snacks at the after-party
Oh, I can just picture the geselligheid – that would be the best of all