A Humanist Funeral Rap
Posted: Fri Apr 25, 2008 8:14 pm
This is meant as a token of filial affection,
I hope it isn't taken in another direction.
All these sat down sad frowns ain't what's wanted
talking on tiptoe like the place was haunted!
He paid no heed to the creed of spirit and ghost,
there's just us - just once - and you have to make the most...
I had words to be telling but how could they be spoken?
My tears would be welling up my voice would be broken.
So I asked for the Humanist to read this address,
I'd be careful to avoid using God and Bless
'cause to have this poem humanely dispatched
it must pass the censor without hiccup or catch.
Could I write of heaven and life hereafter?
I felt like the bloke in that book by Kafka
on trial for offences that weren't made explicit
and in fear that the secular police might visit.
Caught between the God Squad and Richard Dawkins!
Be empowered not a coward and do your own talking!
Your very first gig as a performance poet
at your old man's funeral so let's not blow it!
Stage fright can be calmed if you wear a disguise
so I've put on this hat and covered my eyes.
I've read these lines a thousand times to try and get it
free of all the pain like an anaesthetic.
I thought what if we share, make it a family affair
then it's not just me all alone up there.
I figured some time during the funeral service
before the old man's body was thrown in the furnace
my brothers and I could perform this rap
with me at the front and my brothers at the back
joining in at the end of each line with a shout!
They could clap their hands and dance about!
They could point their fingers with emphasis!
Don't worry boys, these are only fantasies!
It ain't gonna happen for a million pounds,
it's just a vision in my head that won't lie down.
An enduring image, as they say on The Fast Show,
it might have been a blast but the moment has passed so...
This has an element of elegy, a little of a litany;
it's about my old man, it's for him it was written, he
decayed for a decade since my mom was in the ground;
he was dying...he was dead...but he wouldn't lie down!
Each time I saw him he'd become more diminished
and he longed for the last night shift to be finished.
His eyes were sunken, his frame was shrunken.
Growing old with dignity? Well, that's just bunkum!
Eighteen hours a day with a mask on gasping,
reliant upon others when he hated asking.
Speaking with that whispering, wheezing sound,
sleeping in his chair 'cause he wouldn't lie down.
But a long time ago you know, he was a giant!
He roared like a lion, he was death defiant!
I remember him lifting us on to his shoulders,
listening to the songs and stories he told us.
Stroking the whiskers sharp on his chin,
the chess games, the arguments that I could never win.
Prising the metal from his working shoes,
The Daily Mirror and the crossword clues.
Saturday afternoons when he backed his losers,
Sunday afternoons when he'd been to the boozer.
The plates of stew and the salmon sandwich,
my mother telling him to mind his language!
Ice in the milk on sugar soaked porridge,
the grief I gave him and never said sorry...
I never said sorry though once I tried!
He waved it away, he brushed it aside,
not with disdain more a matter of pride.
English reserve and stiff upper lip
though on one occasion he let the mask slip.
It were shortly after my mother had died,
he blamed himself, he broke down and cried.
He described how he found her lying on the ground,
how he should have been quicker and had let her down.
I tried to ease his burden, to make it distinct
that life is more of a marathon and less of a sprint.
Twenty years he was there whilst my mom fought cancer,
lived his life on the square and had no case to answer.
But you couldn't tell that to the silly old bugger
and he beat himself up over the death of my mother.
Now let their memories mingle and be tightly bound
some place deep inside where they won't lie down.
Lately my wife was his personal shopper,
I hoovered, changed the bed but couldn't do it proper!
He'd complain and correct me the way that he did
when he was my dad and I was his kid.
That's what I missed most on the morning we found
him dead in his chair 'cause he wouldn't lie down.
I hope it isn't taken in another direction.
All these sat down sad frowns ain't what's wanted
talking on tiptoe like the place was haunted!
He paid no heed to the creed of spirit and ghost,
there's just us - just once - and you have to make the most...
I had words to be telling but how could they be spoken?
My tears would be welling up my voice would be broken.
So I asked for the Humanist to read this address,
I'd be careful to avoid using God and Bless
'cause to have this poem humanely dispatched
it must pass the censor without hiccup or catch.
Could I write of heaven and life hereafter?
I felt like the bloke in that book by Kafka
on trial for offences that weren't made explicit
and in fear that the secular police might visit.
Caught between the God Squad and Richard Dawkins!
Be empowered not a coward and do your own talking!
Your very first gig as a performance poet
at your old man's funeral so let's not blow it!
Stage fright can be calmed if you wear a disguise
so I've put on this hat and covered my eyes.
I've read these lines a thousand times to try and get it
free of all the pain like an anaesthetic.
I thought what if we share, make it a family affair
then it's not just me all alone up there.
I figured some time during the funeral service
before the old man's body was thrown in the furnace
my brothers and I could perform this rap
with me at the front and my brothers at the back
joining in at the end of each line with a shout!
They could clap their hands and dance about!
They could point their fingers with emphasis!
Don't worry boys, these are only fantasies!
It ain't gonna happen for a million pounds,
it's just a vision in my head that won't lie down.
An enduring image, as they say on The Fast Show,
it might have been a blast but the moment has passed so...
This has an element of elegy, a little of a litany;
it's about my old man, it's for him it was written, he
decayed for a decade since my mom was in the ground;
he was dying...he was dead...but he wouldn't lie down!
Each time I saw him he'd become more diminished
and he longed for the last night shift to be finished.
His eyes were sunken, his frame was shrunken.
Growing old with dignity? Well, that's just bunkum!
Eighteen hours a day with a mask on gasping,
reliant upon others when he hated asking.
Speaking with that whispering, wheezing sound,
sleeping in his chair 'cause he wouldn't lie down.
But a long time ago you know, he was a giant!
He roared like a lion, he was death defiant!
I remember him lifting us on to his shoulders,
listening to the songs and stories he told us.
Stroking the whiskers sharp on his chin,
the chess games, the arguments that I could never win.
Prising the metal from his working shoes,
The Daily Mirror and the crossword clues.
Saturday afternoons when he backed his losers,
Sunday afternoons when he'd been to the boozer.
The plates of stew and the salmon sandwich,
my mother telling him to mind his language!
Ice in the milk on sugar soaked porridge,
the grief I gave him and never said sorry...
I never said sorry though once I tried!
He waved it away, he brushed it aside,
not with disdain more a matter of pride.
English reserve and stiff upper lip
though on one occasion he let the mask slip.
It were shortly after my mother had died,
he blamed himself, he broke down and cried.
He described how he found her lying on the ground,
how he should have been quicker and had let her down.
I tried to ease his burden, to make it distinct
that life is more of a marathon and less of a sprint.
Twenty years he was there whilst my mom fought cancer,
lived his life on the square and had no case to answer.
But you couldn't tell that to the silly old bugger
and he beat himself up over the death of my mother.
Now let their memories mingle and be tightly bound
some place deep inside where they won't lie down.
Lately my wife was his personal shopper,
I hoovered, changed the bed but couldn't do it proper!
He'd complain and correct me the way that he did
when he was my dad and I was his kid.
That's what I missed most on the morning we found
him dead in his chair 'cause he wouldn't lie down.