I live in an old, sweaty house.
Next door is the funeral home.
Why is it called home?
No one ever lived there. . .
Every day I walk by your tribute to the living guilty and the dead non-caring. If the lights are on, well, gee that means...Another old person dead...Another expensive
death celebrated at the Funeral Home.
I walk my dog past the funeral home every day. When the lights are on, I let him pee on their improbably green grass. I hate your perfection, your sanitization of the whole function of death.
Tonight, my dear Funeral "Home", I choose Life, I drink beer on your chemically treated grass, my dog pisses on you.
Good boy!