Smith's Funeral.

I didn’t go to Smith’s funeral.
Smith, and I had an agreement,
that whoever went first would spare the other
the bullshit of bereavement.
The limpid eulogising:
Some po faced Holy Joe;
prattling piss we didn’t believe,
in a gloomy morbid show.

I went to Smith’s tree planting.
A memorial tree in the park;
where Smith, and I would sit all day,
swilling cider till’ after dark.
Smith, would rant about modern life
and history, and tomorrow.
And blame it all on the price of ale:
The cost of drowning sorrow.

Smith, was a blowhard of living.
A Poet, a Bard and a Prince!
He could blast out a curse in perfect verse
that would make the Devil wince.
I want to remember his madness.
His wild visions; so truly divine.
So I didn’t go to Smith’s funeral
And he won’t be coming to mine.

I have included this belatedly in the edited(ish) stuff, having been reminded today of the sudden passing of my old hoppo’ Ian Smith, of Wakefield and Manningham. Smith’s funeral was actually far from as we had imagined when we made the pact, but I’m glad I honoured it. Smith, always said he didn’t want to go to a Heaven where anyone was excluded, however much of a low shitbag they had been in life. Almost the exact words as I recall. And since Mighty Smitey, was a gifted Shaman and Seer; I have no doubt that such a Valhalla, awaits.