“What is reincarnation?” a crony ask’d his friend.
“Well, it starts,” his old pal tells him, “when your life
come to an end.
They wash your neck an’ comb your hair an’ clean your
fingernails,
Then they sticks you in a padded box, away from life’s
travails.
Now the box an’ you goes in a hole that’s been dug in the
ground,
And reincarnation starts, my friend, when they plant you
‘neath that mound.
The clods melts down, as does the box, an’ you who are
inside,
And that’s when you’re beginning your transformation ride.
And in a while the grass will grow upon that render’d mound,
Until some day upon that spot, a lonely flower is found.
And then a horse might wander by an’ graze upon that flower
Thet once was you an’s now become your vegetative bower.
Well, the flower that the horse done ate, along with his
other feed,
Makes bone, an’ fat, an’ muscle essential to this steed.
But there’s a part that he can’t use an’ so it passes
through,
And there it lies upon the ground, this thing that once was
you.
And if by chance I happen by an’ see this on the ground,
I’ll stop awhile an’ ponder on this object I have found.
And I’ll think about reincarnation, an’ life an’ death an’
such,
And I’ll go away concludin’, ‘Heck, you ain’t changed that
much!’”
No comments:
Post a Comment