It was probably the moustache
That attracted the fly
This was probably the last time
He would be buzzed
And the first time
That he would not know.
There was a lot of white
The drapes, the sarees, the cotton
With which his toes and the thumbs
Were tied.
When you are dead
I guess these things don't matter
The color, the flies and the incense
That invades the nostrils
Until you feel heady
With his death.
When you are dead
I guess you are
Probably just dead
And it's different
From just not being alive.
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