The Undertaker

Coopers Creek where the cattle cross

Is a settlement, not a town,

The old stone huts of the pioneers

Still grace the stony ground,

The folk are tough, if a little rough

But their hearts are beaten gold,

And they stick to their chosen country

Through the heat, and the bitter cold.

 

They once would bury the fallen in

The shade of the stringy barks,

But time went on, and they used the land

For one of their only parks,

They needed a brand new cemetery

And an undertaker too,

And that was the time Elijah Dark

Came shuffling into view.

 

Elijah, he was a drifter with

A mane of snow white hair,

He hadn’t managed a shave back then

For the best part of a year,

He’d never been in a steady job

Some said he’d turn and run,

Whenever the folk would need a hand

Beneath the blazing sun.

 

It came as quite a surprise when he

Came in both shaved and cropped,

Waving the piece of paper that

Had hung in the little shop,

‘You’re needing an undertaker, well,

I think that I’m your man,

I can shovel a six foot hole

As fast as any man can!’

 

They said they’d give him a try, and he

Set up in an old stone hut,

Hung up a sign, ‘Elijah Dark,

If you’re dead, then look me up.’

They marked out a plot of land for him

To use as the cemetery,

He dug a couple of practice holes

And said, ‘It’ll do for me.’

 

The dying there was a trifle slow

‘Til the cholera came to town,

It took out a couple of farmers, and

The widow, Hetty Brown,

He sent away for the coffins and

He stacked them up on a shelf,

Wrapping them up in plastic wrap

To sanitise his health.

 

Then Mrs. Jans, the farmer’s wife

Came down to visit her ex,

Came storming out of the old stone hut

Like a matron spaced on Bex,

For Hetty lay on her back in there

With the farmer, mouth to mouth,

‘I knew that something was going on,

They’re lying, south to south!’

 

Elijah said that he hadn’t room,

That he’d only had one shelf,

‘I had to lie them on top,’ he said

But I’ll swap your Jans with Ralph,

‘I want him buried, I want it now,’

She screamed in an instant flap,

And that’s how the farmer, Mr. Jans

Was buried in plastic wrap.

 

The coffins came and it settled down

‘Til the cold of the winter snow,

Then three a week had cashed their chips,

Had thought it was time to go,

They lay in piles with the men on men,

And the women coy on the floor,

Elijah slept in a coffin with

The lid pulled down to get warm.

 

They had four funerals in one day

And the people came en masse,

Down from the little wooden church

Through the long and waving grass,

The holes were dug so they dropped them in

And they covered them with soil,

‘But where is the Undertaker?’ said

A chap called Nicholas Doyle.

 

They found the body of Andrew Watts

Still lying up on the shelf,

‘If he isn’t buried,’ said Nicholas Doyle,

'Then Dark must have buried himself!’

They tossed a coin if they'd bother to dig,

Then went to follow their sport,

And that is why, at Cooper’s Creek

They’re an Undertaker short.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Mark]

Another macabre morsel of Moonta madness, from the very weird pen of David Paget. Can't help but wonder why Mr. Dark chose to sleep in a coffin, unless he were of that ilk who were not actually alive at all, and did their BEST sleeping in the daytime, but were reputed to be somewhat restless at night...

[quinfinn]

dark and disturbing piece, reminiscent of an old Poe tale...very handily crafted and superb storytelling!

[Marie]

Poor Elijah Dark...there's a reason sane folk don't sleep in coffins...

[Dhaye]

You are an excellent writer! I am glad I can read your works, which inspires me as a new writer. I love to read this kind of poetry, of which you have your own identity - your own style. Thanks for sharing this.