If they don't play Prez Prado
at my funeral,
and don't dance round my casket
the Mambo,
strewing flowers en route to my grave
from their baskets all the way . . .
If they don't squirt red wine
from skins full to bursting,
singing their gladness,
song for song,
since I'm gone,
I'll haunt them to death,
with my white sheet on,
to their last living breath,
If they don't play *Patricia*
at my funeral.
And when I've been planted
for so long as it takes,
to rate a handful of posies,
come the Thirtieth of May,
let them do me the honor,
of a sooner holiday,
bearing bright yellow rosies,
with bells on their toesies,
true to the bonheur
of April's first day,
or I'll burst through the sod
with my lawnmower running,
and ride 'em all down
till the music is playing
that hot Latin eulogy of song
to your Sweet Life,
from the day of my funeral on.
Cha Cha Cha!
Followers
