If you move a little closer,
they’ll wheel the dead out
in a washing basket,

and all your compadres
turn brown
and drift away,

they’re wheeling out the dead
at the bloodshot end of day.

Can you roll a bigger coast
to tell them to get out,
before the casket comes?

And each to their own
choose death
and seize the day,

but they’re still wheeling out the dead
and the sky goes from blue to grey,

wheel out the dead, all in red
at the bloodshot break of day. 

James Mcloughlin (C) 2011

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