The Funeral Procession
R
Randy McClave
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The funeral procession drove past my house
I bowed my head and I was quite as a mouse,
In a solemn prayer I gave to the sadly departed
As I knew of the sadness and remorse of the fainthearted;
One car after another I watched go down the street
As I still stood there in respect in this unbearable heat,
The cars that I counted they were over twenty-five
Sadly not one visited the departed when he was still alive;
So, there goes his procession heading to the graveyard
As though being led by weepers and the national guard,
I guess when he was living his life he was always misread
Now he is missed and remembered since now he is dead.
Randy L. McClave
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