When I was twelve the undertaker came up
from the corner: 'Something special, come and see.'

The corpse was Italian,
beautifully laid out,

caught in the pride of his youth.
No expense had been barred.

There in the dim light, gold on his fingers,
he lay like a Pharaoh, a jewel in its box.

Flower's thick odours crowded the room
and I know why they screwed the lid down.

Next day the cortege arrived and departed;
soot from the steam-train covered the scene.

So all desires unacted appear to me,
so every thought that's cut short in its course.