A black suit always goes well at a funeral.

There is, you will concede, a limit to the niceties a man is obliged to fulfill when his wife is dead and not yet cold.

If they die, we bury them; if they don't, we won't.

Here is a sermon for you, Reverend: Everything not dead dies. Just like those little fellows scooting around beside that dead mamma goose, little downy fellas who are gonna meet a hungry weasel or vicious farm dog before nightfall, their world stands in chaos, and not of their own doing.