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"Shall I Compare Thee to a Backfill Pile?" April 27, 2000 |
by Lila Beldock Cohen |
Today, when someone leaves this world And goes to meet his maker, His poor bereaved are oft relieved To learn the undertaker Will gladly honor Mastercard. No mourner would he harry. (Although, of course, without remorse He'd opt for cash and carry.) The first Egyptians were wiser far In matters funerary. No souped-up prices to pack off Isis, No discounts when they'd bury. Instead of drip-dry winding sheets For a corpse on a fruitwood stand, They'd empty his tummy and make him a mummy And hustle him into the sand. In time, the pharaohs, drunk on wealth, Got hooked on newer angles; They built their tombs with rumpus rooms And kohl-dust stars and bangles. Some early Daniel Webster carved A glyph for "stiff" and hearse words, Then someone shut the door on Tut-- What's left of him now? Curse words. The peasants lasted in their dunes, Preserved in their aridity; But the opulent old all went to mold-- No not the heat. Humidity. |
© 2000 by the Archaeological Institute of America archive.archaeology.org/online/features/poetry/cohen.html |
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