Bury me flamboyantly clad.
No white silk shroud for me,
no brown and heavy sacking.
The Hawaiian shirt in the bottom drawer might do the trick
although I wouldn’t be seen dead in it while living.
Bury me flamboyantly clad.
The purple underwear perhaps,
with bright pink elastic bands.
You know the one? The faded writing used to read,
“Down dog! Down!” It's quite unused for years.
Bury me flamboyantly clad.
No naked skin below the naval,
no hatless head with balding patch.
Green golfing trousers and yellow baseball cap.
Unironed one hopes; a bit of plaid; reverse the cap.
Bury me flamboyantly clad.
No history digger in a thousand years
must dig me up for study and say,
“Put this body back in earth.” No! No! He needs must say:
“Holy mackerel! Oh my God! Fetch the glass cabinet!”