Thomas

Call him Thomas he prepares people to be buried,
He paints the cadavers a smile though his mind is weary.
The temperature rising here in the mortuary,
You've got to be careful or you spoil the stiffs.
Lonely Tom and his bodies alone he wonders...

He wants to move to Alaska to start a new life,
Befriend the Eskimo children and build a snow wife.
He swears he will use the ice as a blanket,
And sculpt a pillow out of a mountain.
And his pulse lacking friends stay colder than you.

Things are getting hot here closer to the equator.
His hair is melting, synthetic plastic strands into human rubber.
The bodies begin to stink, releasing the awful odor.
His skin turns red but his mind returns to cold.
Simple brain freeze to keep him from turning old.

Thomas is getting tired, well he's tired to death,
He looks at his wards and touches their features,
His finger tips near the lips and it's here he lingers.
Thomas leans in holding his breath,
And he kisses body number 4, drawer K.

Thomas' friends are rotting in the swelter,
He's too tired to find the reason for the blisters.
Thomas looks for his best friend in drawer A,
He climbs in with her, gunshot wound to the trachea.
He falls asleep curled around her torso.

His chest rises and falls, and falls again.
Never to rise, Thomas and friends.