Graveyard Fashion Show

Marble runway glitters under phosphorus moon,
coffin-lid catwalk creaks a rattling tune.
Models stitch their rib-cage corsets tight with sighs,
graveyard fashion show sells afterlife disguise.

Shovel-flash photographers blind the tombstone rows,
skull-capped designers fit the maggots in repose.
Eyeball brooches glitter, spinal necklaces swing,
funeral-home fragrances embalming everything.

Step right up—graveyard fashion show.
Silk-lined boxes spotlight bones that glow.
Haute-macabre couture where the living won’t go,
strut that rigor glamour, the graveyard fashion show.

Finale drops the curtain made of burial shrouds,
audience of statues claps with thunderclouds.
Tickets float to topsoil when the lanterns fail,
graveyard fashion show signs your coffin mail.

Beauty dies but beauty sells—graveyard’s always hiring;
wear your finest vacancy, the dirt is never tiring.