Plowshares

You have been formaldehyde, not sundried and a pickle loaf. To become all that is buried one must be dead. A long gone cadaver manicured and numb, with no fairies dancing in your head or illuminating a fallen angel. Cast out of your own wake because of caustic ink. Before the ink dried, dressed to look like a cowboy as a choir sang "You Are My Sunshine," but outside there is a frigging Tsunami. It ain't Vaudeville or waltzing Matilda. There is no recycling in the mulch or shaking tambourines and you have no cards to play Euchre. Yet there is a parking meter at your stone and a wind-up plastic toy of Jesus .Ain't no respect in being kaput just plowshares and a rusted car.