THE MOURNERS

The pit was dug by drunken men
To whom a sum of thanks was paid.
And when they viewed the deadman’s box
Which slept at ease whilst grace was said.

Around the hole the mourners stood;
The twenty ladies dressed in blacks
Who waited patient stood so still
As each was posing in her slacks.

When they had done with food and drink
And all were full to heart’s content,
And now was time to start their mourn,
They stood a circle round the vent.

The deadman’s wife all fat and calm,
Approached the trench and fainted sure:
With luck she fell upon a man
Whose arms caressed her to a cure.

The people fell a sobbing then,
So anguished that a man should die
And leave a wife and clan and kids
Without a house in which to lie

And then the twenty women burst-
Their naked shoulders shook with grief;
their heaving bosoms rose and fell
In ready passions slick and brief.

Their wailing voices rent the air,
Like sirens haunting warning nights,
Like rasping violins that soar,
To shame unskillful sobs with sleights.

Their mourning voices raved so clear,
Unruffled quite by love’s regard-
They neither knew nor recked the dead-
For flies they’d weep if pledged reward.

And when they’d mourned their part with skill,
And silenced other mourners still,
Their eyes were yet as dry as stones,
And glittered fresh like polished steel.

The coffin sank beneath the ground:
The food and drinks were soon in flood;
As widows swooned in stranger’s arms,
The mourners left for fresher blood.