by Nick Gisburne
She longs for this to be the perfect day
And battles with the cobwebs in her hair
A freezing shower soaks the scum away
Her dress is rank, the rags a foul affair
Although her flesh has peeled, she folds it flat
And now, at last, the vision is complete
Relieved she never gained an ounce of fat
Perhaps because she died and does not eat
Another groom, another husband, slain
Another ring to rattle in the jar
The thrill of weddings easy to explain
She loves to drag their bones behind the car
Three times a year she leaves her rotten grave
And claims another corpse to be her slave
