Two-teeth Sal's last wish
by ed parrish
Old Two-teeth Sal had saved her cash, and now her life was over,
But
before she turned to lifeless ash and went beneath the clover,
She
called three friends and asked them in, the preacher, doc, and lawyer,
With
hats in hand they filed right in. They entered through the
foyer.
Upon her chest, Sal helt a box as she greeted her three callers,
She
popped the lid and took from it three stacks of paper dollars,
"Ninety
thousand, boys!" she said. "I'll take it to salvation,
"Here's
thirty each, so nail it in. Then close my excavation.
"I want it in my coffin, and I know you'll do me right,
"So
now I'll close my eyes and rest, it's time for my long night."
With
that, she died. She left three friends with wads of giant
numbers,
And counted on 'em, every one, to lock them in her lumber.
At the funeral they said goodbye, and as each passed the casket,
They
dropped in envelopes, all sealed, just as Old Sal had asked it,
And
sent her to her great reward, abiding by her wish,
They lowered
Sal into the ground and covered up her ditch.
In the buggy on the way to town, they chatted 'bout the service,
But
the preacher sweated fearsome, and the doctor, he was nervous,
"I
only put in twenty-thou," the pastor finally wept,
"The
church needs a roof. That'll cost ten. So that's how
much I kept."
The doctor shifted in his seat, "Compared to me, you're
lily white,
"I only put in ten of it. I tossed and
turned all night,
"But the people need a clinic, so I used
the other twenty,
"To set up a loan and build 'em one. 'Course
I didn't keep a penny."
And through it all, the lawyer sat there quiet and most smug,
With
a look of righteous piety on his sanctimonious mug,
For in his
envelope down there, which in the earth had sank,
Was his personal
check for thirty thou -
in his account now at the bank.
