Colin F. Jones

DEATH’S DOLLARS

There’s a paddock in the bush not far away,
Where those who choose imbed their last remains,
It’s just a field of weedy grass and clay,
But those who never bought it make their claims
Two hundred dollars per lot of eight by four,
Of ancient ground made sacred by our deaths,
It costs the same, for the rich and poor,
Who have no say without their living breaths.
Some day beside my Mother there I’ll lie,
My Father too who’ll share her precious grave,
So long as I’ve paid my two hundred bucks to die,
Which dad has paid so I do not have to save;
Although my coffin, the one they carry me off in,
Will cost a herd of buffalo in the Spring.