Here lies Lester Moore
Now there's no Les no more
The tombstone says their last line
Witty, funny and sometimes in rhyme
Rodney Dangerfield couldn't tell a falsehood
He said, "There goes the neighborhood"
Though he never had a festschriften
"I won't be right back," said Merv Griffin
"Filling my last cavity" on the dentist's stone
Tombstone humor can make you groan
"I told you I was sick" was his last word
So now he knows we finally heard
To laugh or not to laugh in a cemetary
Some say the decision is arbitrary
Graveside humor is nothing new
Even after death, there's no taming of the shrew
To all those who were yet unknown
Shakespeare said, "Cursed be he that moves my bones"
The deceased can have whatever they pick
Spike Milligan said: "I told you so" in Gaelic
Laugh or cry as you visit the departed
Leslie Nielsen's stone says he farted
To all those who just don't like the jokes
Mel Blanc's says' "That's all folks"
© 2026 Brian McNeal
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THE JOY OF FACETIME
When the old rancher reached the end of his life
He left more bills than income for his poor wife
The couple's son assumed the debt
So Mom could enjoy her last years without sweat
When Mom began to decline, unneeded services were terminated
Little by little, most of her daily debt was deflated
Month after month the bills were paid until there were none
Thanks to a caring and generous rancher's son
Then one day, out of the blue, he gets a call from debt collection
Seems a bill for telephone and broadband service was the objection
But that service was cancelled long ago said the rancher's heir
"I stopped service myself when Mom started living at Elder Care"
"But service can only be stopped by the account holder"
"That account was in dad's name, and he ain't gettin' any older"
"We must speak to the account holder in order to end service"
"Soon as I can get him to the phone," quipped the son, sorta nervous
Well, now, it's off to the graveyard and with phone mounted on stand
He facetimes the agency with phone pointed at headstone big and grand
Quietly he walks around behind the lens and hears the grumbles
Then after a while he asks if they'd heard his dad cause sometimes he mumbles
He explained that he hasn't been able to have a decent conversation in years
It's so hard to get through six feet of graveyard dirt to reach dad's ears
But he was glad to comply and let them speak to the owner of the account
Several weeks later he received a letter with a zero balance for the amount
© 2026 Brian McNeal
© 2026 Brian McNeal
The night rider sang softly, to calm the herd.
A chorus of workin' trail hands' snores heard.
Gentle breezes blew through the trees.
Cooky stirred the fire, on bended knees.
Stars shown bright, as three hooded riders came.
Demanding, abusing, and full of blame.
Insulting, accusing, and holding court.
Night riders of a different sort.
The herd was still, soft music floating on the air.
Harmonica Gus was riding that night, with due care.
Sleeping hands begin to stir, when wrong is about.
Waking to find hooded riders leaves no doubt.
Frontier justice is quick and forthwith.
Shots from under the wagon stole their pith.
The end to an argument from Irish Red.
Three hooded Night Riders fell dead.
Down in the draw, where the rain waters warsh,
Three bodies were dragged in due course.
A cremation fire was built and stoked,
For three dead riders, once cloaked
One mangy, old steer was thrown on for deception,
And a few chicken bones to confuse visual perception.
A Christian service was held and then silence,
And each of us were sworn to compliance.
In three days, after the fire was cold,
We moved the herd over the spot to hold.
They trampled down any evidence left behind.
Then we hustled the herd to make up lost time.
Three "prominent citizens" failed to show for breakfast,
And three wives put up one hell of a tempest.
Months went by with no sighting and no word.
A Pinkerton man was referred.
What looked like an old campfire was located,
But, trail herds had passed over and obliterated -
All traces of evidence of what had been,
Cloaking the events of a once grizzly scene.
Somewhere in the West, is a town without.
No banker, no lawyer, no judge, no doubt.
Now, three "upstanding citizens" are hellbound,
Paying their due in the Devil's playground.
But, what about Irish Red and Harmonica Gus?
What happened to the rest of us?
Always looking behind to observe with fear.
Was the law catching up, getting too near?
What did we do, and do we have regrets?
None could agree, but none could forget.
We lived and the night riders died.
Could've been the other way, had we not tried.
We pulled off their hoods, and knew who they were,
And avoided that town forevermore and for sure.
Would you have done the same as I have said?
I can only answer for myself, 'cause I am Irish Red.
© 2026 Brian McNeal
