DYING IS A GROWTH INDUSTRY

“Give us this day our daily bread”
Hearse—Man and Mason plead.
Somewhere another soul flies free;
His body fills their need

The Doctor quickly checks the pulse
And listens to the heart.
He shakes his head, makes out his note
Then leaves. He’s done his part.

The Registrar records the death,
He sighs in sympathy.
Makes out a copy of his deed,
Acknowledges his fee.

The Undertaker fusses round,
Checking the corpse for size
His fee, if known at this moment,
Would cause the dead to rise.

The Casket Maker sharps his tools,
Selects his finest oak,
Squares off the ends, cramps to the head
He’ll not be going broke.

The Florist heeds her telephone,
And books the orders in.
Nigh twenty wreaths, a big one this
A goodly one to win.

The Parson’s much thumbed diary
Shows busy times ahead.
“Three other funerals on that day,
Will Wednesday do instead?”

“Wednesday will suit the Organist;
Perhaps the choir as well,
I’ll fix my special service,
Arrange to toll the bell.”

The Sexton marks the grave around,
Then cuts the first green turf.
His long thin blade shears ever down,
Into the dark brown earth.

The body’s long been laid to rest.
Black marble marks the spot
Wherein they set the oaken box
And left it there to rot.

The family Lawyers read the will
And each has had a share.
The Taxman too, has drawn his due.
There’s precious left to spare.

“A costly business, dying is.
The moral if one there be;
To save expense to those you love —–
Better to die at sea!”