Number 124. Coffin and Splutterin

Coffin and Splutterin.

Every time I wasn’t well,

My dad an old adage would tell;

'Don’t worry if you have a cough;

It’s not the cough that carries you off,

Fear instead the wooden coffin

The coffin they finally carry you off in!'

Never mind that I was eight;

I dreaded being called ‘The late!’

And so today as I lie ill,

I think of my old daddy still,

Not because he was a joker

Rather my old chest’s a choker!

Still, I’ve got to fifty five;

Coughing yes, but still alive,

I’ve taken several nasty knocks,

Though none quite put me in my box,

Unless you count the time I put,

Into a grave my lost left foot.

I packed it off ahead of me,

Don’t believe me? Go and see,

You’ll find it clearly marked with stone,

In a pasture all alone,

Just below the Downs at Harting,

Where a little path is starting.

Buried there in ninety three,

It’s quite a major part of me,

But when I'm really gone and dead,

How far away will be my head?

(Since I don’t think I ever will,

Be laid to rest by that same hill).

So on my headstone there could be,

A map to find the rest of me;

In case your mourning’s incomplete

Without addressing both my feet!

© Stephen Saunders