Cheesy Rider

In a seance with myself, not suffering ghost. But the dead get lonely. Just ask the next guy, parallel parked next to my stone. I seem to have all the symptoms of a decaying corpse with sagging flesh soaked in formaldehyde. Surrounded by rednecks and fools who squeeze the Ouija.  
 
Cemeteries are for wimps, bloating with gas, and playing Lotto with their Harley. Jesus doesn't have 76 tattoos to lead the Cheeto Parade.
 
 I am lonely, talking with a fly of a bottle-green nature, once a pupa...whatever! Now flying too low to my incense stick. Why couldn't it be an angel? I'm not ugly, I just stink. The weeping widow on my left denied me a dance. But I don't give a damn. Her bones just didn't fit.  
  
I think I will sing. Is there any inquest? Cemetery humor should make one smile. My backup lights are shot and my casket needs fine-tuning. A  pound of bones is worth two in the hearse. I'm just a lucky stiff with a toothache named, Cheesy Rider.