Life is tough. The other day I was pulled over for doing trochees in an iambic pentameter zone and they revoked my poetic license. It's just as well. My poetry writing was compulsive. Every morning I would get up and immediately start versifying. It was a case of going from bed to verse.
Homeless man's funeral
As a bagpiper, I play many gigs. Recently I was asked by a funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless man. He had no family or friends, so the service was to be at a pauper's cemetery in the Kentucky back country. As I was not familiar with the backwoods, I got lost. I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had evidently gone and the hearse was nowhere in sight. There were only the digging crew left and they were eating lunch. I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late.
I went to the side of the grave and looked down and the vault lid was already in place. I didn't know what else to do, so I started to play. The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around. I played out my heart and soul for this man with no family or friends. As I played 'Amazing Grace,' the workers began to weep. They wept, I wept, we all wept together.
When I finished I packed up my bagpipes and started for my car. Though my head hung low, my heart was full. As I opened the door to my car, I heard one of the workers say, "I ain't never seen nuthin' like that before and I've been putting in septic tanks for twenty years."
Apparently I'm still lost...
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