A Wake and a Guitar

They said he died when he drove his wheel-horse off a cliff,
But Clifford had been the type to try anything for a good laugh,
He’d always be the first to slip in a quip and play good riffs,
He had said he’d be buried with his guitar in his epitaph.
The wreath was wrought in the shape of his Fender telecast,
The one he played in worship services playing gospel and blues,
His friends had always coveted the instrument until at last,
Willful they plotted to steal it so they came up with a ruse.
The morning of the wake the windswept lawns of the town,
Seemed a little taller now that Clifford was gone,
And yet his friends' coveting would not wane or go down,
It was a special signed Fender upon which they dwelled on.
 
“Here is lies Clifford Weaver”, the preacher told the grievers,
Delivering a wry and witty eulogy to just four of his friends,
As the signed Fender was placed in his hands like a teaser,
Plugged to a wadding amp for the last riff would be a gem.
Suddenly that old bluesy sound started to rip from the box,
The four friends scared and pale then began to shake,
Clifford played a practical joke saying “I heard you all talk…
But the guitar is mine bitches because I’m alive at my wake!”