Remembering me. (The sitcom)

What'll they’ll say when I’m as dead as the route 6 opossum?

There's a bag for both of us, but the opossum's bag'll be tied in a knot.

Mine'll have a snazzy zipper –– and a heavier mil.

There’s nothing either of us can do when entering the realm

of the "Omnipotent Equalizer" where requiems are played

on an endless loop, although the opossum makes more sense when it's dead.

At the remembrance the women will whisper:

Good bunter, they'll say.

Fast up the first base line, they'll mostly agree. 

Couldn’t hit for shit, she might add.

Cue the canned laughter.

Hell-of-a slow dancer, though, she'll sigh.

Cue the canned murmuring, third pew center

from the altar's polished rail.

That's if they show-up at all.

I used to like the scent of burning incense wafting from

the rocking thurible serving at the altar of the Benediction.

I've driven a fast car passing the opossum laid waste on the

tarmac of the open road.–– I've fathered one child.

That's 20 short of the common opossum, so say the women.

Cue the canned laughter. Curtain, and houselights.