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I live in an old, sweaty house.
Next door is the funeral home.
Why is it called home?
No one ever lived there. . .

Every day I walk by your tribute to the living guilty and the dead non-caring. If the lights are on, well, gee that means...Another old person dead...Another expensive death celebrated at the Funeral Home.

I walk my dog past the funeral home every day. When the lights are on, I let him pee on their improbably green grass. I hate your perfection, your sanitization of the whole function of death.

Tonight, my dear Funeral "Home", I choose Life, I drink beer on your chemically treated grass, my dog pisses on you.

Good boy!

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