They knowhow to shovel that stuff

The dirt and the mud and the grime,

            They’reprobing for a shady character

Or just another citizen to slime.

 

            They’llbury your reputation

After poking around in your past

            Occasionallythey will be quite fawning

But don’t worry, it won’t last.

 

            No matterhow seldom you’ve slipped

Or how often you’re in the right

            If theyfind any metal that’s tarnished

They’ll bring it into the light.

 

            They’llhound you for juicy tidbits

Or sleazy and salacious details

            Not enoughthe wages of sin

On the pen of the press your impaled.

 

            They’llmeasure you for a casket

They’ll assess your body– of work

            They’llfind a fitting epitaph

‘Here lies a world class jerk’

 

            They hangaround in graveyards

They comb the catacombs

            They’rebirds of prey, like vultures

They’ll follow you where ere you roam.

 

            Life’s agrave undertaking

For those who feast on your falls

            And maketheir own reputation

By describing your burial pall.

           

            Thedismissal can be quite brief,

The interment takes no time at all

            But if youshould rise from the dead

You’ll find they won’t be appalled.

 

            For itgives them more work to do,

More fodder for their sod farm

            They’lltell you they are happy to see you

And of course they meant you no harm,

 

So here’s to the political pundits

The shock jocks and tabloiders too

Not to mention personal injurylawyers

Who know how to manipulate you.

 

 They’ve made their namesoff your misfortune

But there’s too little grace inthat Nancy

They’ll fillet and barbecue you slowly

‘Would you like it slow-cooked orfancy?

 

But what’s even more disturbing

Are the grave diggers manyfans 

The morbid lust for blood

Makes grave diggers ratings quitegrand

 

They stop to look at the accident

            The victimlies sprawled on the road

They’re curious to see if you’ve croaked

            Likeanother road-killed toad

 

I wonder what layer of Hades

Dante’d reserve for these folks?

The grave diggers annual roasting

Where they are the butt of thejokes.

 

Why is it that those ole flame-throwers

Have trouble taking the heat

They’re good at claiming a victory

When they’ve retold your defeat

 

I’m thankful I’m not a grave digger

Nor even one of their fans,

I’d rather die on the cross

Like that ole Son of Man

 

 

BW III   Jan 22  2010