Cleaning Up The Mess

I envision you dying in an embarrassing way,

In a manner to cause your mother dismay.

You sit to the table with nothing to drink,

And mortally choke on a piece of dry bread...

Well, you'd find that quite soon you'd be starting to stink.

If you sit at that table, no one knowing you're dead,

Your dog will soon be starting to think

That your gut is some sort of strange sausage link,

And the cat'll eat your tongue right out of your head.

So it's safe to say (this is how scientists feel)

That you'll start to decay, and be mooshy, like oatmeal.

There won't be much left in some two hundred days,


That body of yours will last for always.

There's something about a trumpet sound,

And a Book that'll have to be read.

It'll be quite a thing when the Man comes around,

For then, you'll be raised from the dead.

There'll be part of your liver in the Caspian Sea,

And your appendix will be in the Red.

But it's just like he told you in Old Galilee:

He'll lose not a hair on your head.