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His Sort
He's a rip-roaring sort 'em,
bereaved of all the merry.
Tonight he'll serve beneath the groom
and wonder what he'll carry
from steeple pew into the night
beneath he may return
to stone and wooden cold asylum
to bring ashes to his urn.
He can't intend to burn to death
without the leave of scars
on grounds of all the hallowed halls,
and atop of all the cars.
A flagrant, moving disregard
for future spills of red.
Left aloft with flickered screens,
he'll turn in soon instead.
