The sound of death

a song that none should be sweeter,

when sung upon hung ears that lay bound

towards a journey with a question all the more grand,

than the emperors elephants all in a row.

An answer that is not evident nor really relevant

waits; when the finest elegance of your attire,

is the costume for display. During this dire event,

echoed by the choir, the bed is being prepared.

So smile to the sound that beckons like a song sung

to your bound ears as a hung neck sways,

a bed of beautiful oak waits; fine sheets of the finest soil,

found only by those who have heard the sound of death,

six feet under the rest.