I prefer to sleep in bed
with my hands clasped
behind my head,
but I tend to snore
in that position, more,
and Nancy, at all hours
whispers, “Ken, roll over!”
I, though comatose, apologise, obey,

So, when I’m dead,
I want to lay
in come comfortable place,
stretched out, relaxed,
with hands clasped
behind my head,
a smile on my dead face.

And when they come to view me,
I hope they’ll say,
“Doesn’t he look-content?”
And when the trumpets wake me,
I hope my Angel shakes me, gently,
as, with a sparkle of humor,
she asks, “Had a pleasant rest?”