The Light Of Whit

Shine the light on the ghost in the corner,

letting the rays penetrate the thick smoke.

The comedian consoles the mourner;

there is a time and a place for a joke

but this is not it, the grave is no stage

for amusements and merrymaking mirth

when the punchline is the victim of age

and the real joke’s been happening since birth,

so let us instead heckle at the dead

and jeer at the clergy’s flat expression,

hoping we aren’t taunted by our death beds

we hide at the back of the procession,

but one day our own stone will face the crowds

and be under their watchful scrutiny,

wishing for the darkness that life shrouds

we set the audience in mutiny

and when that day comes, I will try my best

to keep the unruly lot engaged

putting my best lines to the final test

I will see how the light of whit has aged.