Confessions of a Gravedigger

My life is no different from the corporate comrades;
Every morning, I leave my house for work,
With a briefcase containing the official implements;
But I neither sit in the claustrophobic conference halls,
Nor am I deluded by the diabolic seductress, the stock market index;
For I am a gravedigger, a penurious artist,
Who gives birth to the dead in a geometricized cradle.
 
 
After drinking a cup of tea with sugar and soot,
I walk with my juvenile engineers towards the project site;
The template specifies the measurement of the stage
Where both a size zero and an obese can easily recline;
The filters of the backhoe loader possess the final deposits of men;
Armani rings, diamond studded nails and even a burgundy colored hair or two.
 
 
Black gowns, crosses and dead roses lead me home;
I try to cleanse my skin and mind with witch hazel;
After eating bun and egg curry, I enter my bedroom
Where my wife waits for me sometimes demanding  
A velvet dress or distressed over her forehead pimple;
Thus my day ends with frowns, mourns and cricket commentary.