The Undertaker.

 The Undertaker. 

With a black top hat and hollowed out cheeks, he greets grieving families seven days a week. Starched white shirt with wing tip collar, herringbone waistcoat gold plated cuff links all prim and proper. 

Grey striped trousers, polished leather shoes, a case of coffin brochures so many to choose. Walnut, oak, elm and solid pine a terrible choice to make when grief is so great. 

Tape measure in hand ready to size up the corpse. Lying in state in the chapel at the hospital morgue. Measurements taken, coffin on order the funeral has been arranged he’ll won’t let anything falter.

Frock coat pressed no need for tails, conducting wand polished as shiny as coffin nails. Silk black cravat adorns his slender neck, every item of clothing carefully in check. On show to the world nothing must go wrong. The master of ceremonies leading the procession to the sound of the church gong.

Polite and courteous every step of the way. The family of the deceased his main priority on the day. Their grief he handles in his expert hands, nothing must interrupt his carefully laid out funeral plans. Comforting the bereaved in the best way he can, the family truly thankful to this remarkable man.