Village of the Dead

by Jesse Coghill
Poet farmer from Jordan, Minnesota

They never eat, they don't need meat
Nor veggies, wine, or bread --
All alone the ancient bones,
In the Village of the Dead.

The old caretaker mows the grass
And rights the sagging stones --
Beneath his feet, six feet deep,
The bleached and moldering bones.

The hearse stops by a gaping hole;
The final words are said.
Another body takes its place
In the Village of the Dead.

The filthy rich are lying there,
And poor folks it is said,
But all have equal privileges
In the Village of the Dead.

Loved ones go visit at the grave
And many tears are shed.
They've lost life's lease, now sleep in peace
In the Village of the Dead.

Some times I think it's not so bad
To make that box my bed
And be all done with earthly cares
In the Village of the Dead.