Poetry Reading from a Lawn Mower





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Published on Apr 4, 2010

This is the poem that won a big, fat, juicy Second Prize, a couple years ago from the Barnes and Noble "Poetry Week" contest sponsored by the local library. A really big deal, I'm sure you'll agree, if you discern a difference between the local library and a local bridge club or Motel 6, for example. I was very proud, very, very; but so surprised next time I showed up to find all the clerks and librarians were NOT waiting to strew roses before my feet, when I walked in past the Reference Desk. THAT was disappointing. For this reason I move my poem from the halls of the library, via YouTube to the whole big round world. I give you . . .


If they don't play Prez Prado
at my funeral,
and don't dance round my casket,
the Mambo,
strewing flowers en route to my grave
from their baskets all the way . . .

If they don't squirt red wine
from skins full to bursting,
singing their gladness,
song for song,
that I'm gone -- --

I'll haunt them to death,
with my white sheet on,
to their last living breath,
If they don't play Prez Prado,
at my funeral.

And when I've been planted
for so long as it takes,
to rate a handful of posies,
come the Thirtieth of May;
Be my memorial granted
of that sooner holiday,
well suited for Love's fools
on April's first day-- --

Or I'll burst through the sod
with my lawnmower running,
and ride 'em all down
till the music is playing
a hot Latin eulogy of song
to your Sweet Life,
from the day of my funeral on.
Cha Cha Cha!
The Daddio45


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