Died

by Gordon Klopfenstein

I intend to have this read at my funeral

The newspaper obit said she was caring and giving
But when she lived, folks used a word rhyming with witch.
Death seems to have an amazing ability
To create in the deceased a character switch.

A fellow or gal who has been a real scoundrel
Or just human with little restraint
Toward laziness, folly falsehood or worse
Mysteriously, postmortemly becomes almost a saint.

Now, I always was one to say what I thought
And what I thought could sometimes offend.
And I did what seemed right and as is true of us humans
It didn’t always turn out to be right in the end.

But I thought things and did things. I didn’t just sit
And worry and fret about things that were wrong.
But thinkers and doers who invade comfort zones
Can become aggravations before very long.

One can’t be what I was and not have offended
So I probably offended. I didn’t intend to.
But I was what I was so do me this honor:
Don’t react to a death as some people do.

I was what I was and you felt what you felt.
I was human and loved it and I left life with pride.
I enjoyed being alive: looking for truth, loving and just having fun.
I didn’t always find it and it wasn’t all fun
But I was loved and—I tried.

So—

Some of you, I’m sure, have cried.
Some probably haven’t even sighed.
Hey—that’s fine.
I’ve only died.
I’ve not been beatified.