The Exhumation


They dug up poor old Jesse, they exhumed him from the ground,
  They couldn't leave his crumbling bones to rest.
They had to have another poke beneath his funeral mound;
  They had to put him to the final test.

What would ever drive a person, what makes him so base
  To want to dig down deep and then invade
The decomposing coffin, the once quiet resting-place
  Where Jesse, somewhat awkwardly, was laid?

Why was it made so public, this most gross indignity,
  Where Jesse had no say in it at all?
Why was it such a circus with no thought of privacy
  For the skeleton which laid there in a sprawl?

The curiosity of man is never really sated,
  Especially now, when bones are near at hand,
Allowing us to do things which were never contemplated
  When Jesse rode above the sod and sand.

The few remains of Jesse James were plucked up from the hole
  And put in bags, and sealed, and sent away
To be molested further by some experts with the role
  To test poor Jess for proper DNA.

Does this not seem queer to you?  Are we some cosmic fools?
  Why do we act in this most curious way?
What is so damned important about Jesse's molecules
  That lets us dig him up from where he lay?

A stranger entertainment would be difficult to show,
  A more macabre pastime couldn't be.
It surely is a sign of our intelligence, you know -
  A product of our reasoning, you see.

And what about our dear old Jess - what do you 'spose he'd think
  About us digging up his sparse cadaver?
Myself, I think he'd like it - probably be tickled pink -
  He'd revel in attention and palaver.

I'm going to give some free advice - it's just a thought, my son -
  Before you plant our Jesse yet once more,
Be sure his cozy coffin-space is free from any gun,
  Or next time he might even up the score!



                             Budde    1995