funeral rite

From the cold room, to the box
Stay locked, with my eyes shut
I wonder if they'll sound the gong
To inform my kinsmen to shoot the gun

Seven cows to be slain
Just six feet I'll be laid
Melodious music to be played
The funeral will leave everybody gay

Are they happy that I'm dead?
Or is it my funeral rite in their head?
I see my wife has lost her hair
And my kinsmen their head

After all these my children will stop school
Cause their fees was used to pay for the cold room
And my wife will be locked in room
Scanty with just pot, mat and broom

Truly the dead can't tell tales
Especially of his funeral day
While his kinsmen goes about in sway
His wife and children languish in hunger and pain