Last week I dressed in my Sunday best
To go see an old friend laid to rest.
Not much to look at in her lifetime
And she never became a wife I'm
Sad to say they gussied her up
To look like a clown. They whirled up
Her hair in towering, frothy pouf
And covered her face with tons of stuff
Like rouge, mascara and shimm'ring gloss
Which on her looked like so much dross
Applied with a large spackle knife
She looked as if she'd led the wild life.
She looked kaleidoscopely waxy
And while she lived she wasn't saxy
They'd tried to make her like a starlet
But made her like an aging harlot.
I stared unbelieving at my old friend
And thought "how could they vilipend
"This simple woman, plain and good?
"And make her look like painted wood?"
I went home filled with resolution
To tell our sons of my solution
On what to do when I cork off;
"Cook a pot of stroganov
"And have a party in my name
"And laugh and say `she was some dame.'
"Don't bury me on precious land
"The earth's already far too jammed.
"Recycle what's still good to use
"And burn the rest, and don't abuse
"My wish to not be on display
"My face all smeared with gaudy clay
"My hair done up in ways I never
"Did it. I was just not clever
"In the ways of fashion or coiffure
"I never was la mode du jour.
"I love you kids, so please, won'tcha
"Obey my wishes, or I'll hauntcha."
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