Uncle Barry laid out cold and neat

Uncle Barry, laid out cold and neat,

with formal suit and polished feet.

He always hated anything so grand,

a man who loved a greasy hand.

And then I saw it, placed just so,

a toupee, brown, a curious glow.

It sat atop his plaster head,

a startled squirrel, freshly dead.

Mossy, askew, a little tight,

it caught the chapel's sickly light.

I felt a bubble, deep inside,

a place where grief just couldn't hide

the sheer absurdity of things.

That ridiculous, small, furry bring-.

I snorted. A quick, sharp, private sound.

While sorrow settled all around.

My cousin glared, my mother hissed.

But oh, the joy I couldn't resist.

That awful wig, a final joke.

And something in me, finally broke.