Sorry, Roger. My miss!

No prob. Ann used the rhyme to better effect.



WHEN I AM DEAD, CREMATE ME

When I am dead, cremate me.
May people say, at least,
no vulture ever ate me
nor was I a maggot's feast.

Though I can't avoid the dying
I can starve the blasted worms
and can send the vultures flying
if you carry out my terms.

It's going to be damned hard to top Ann's.

Forgive me, Roger - I worked on my version in isolation, spurred, as it happens, by your question at post#2.

In the spirit of true contrition, I will confess that it was an ignominious, unpoetly trawl through the alphabet that yielded the phrase I duplicated.

Friends?

Ann, I did not mean to suggest that you got the idea for the rhyme from me. Of course I know that we came upon it independently. I only wish I had made more of it than I did -- yours, as the culmination of a rhyme pile-on, is much funnier and packs more of a wallop.

Bless you - you suggested no such thing. It's just me, desperately clinging to the moral high ground.

As a matter of fact this is, from my point of view, a purely Lucy-ferous excercise. I'm all for the maggots, myself.

When I am Dead

When I am dead, cremate me,
In dust and nothing uncreate me,
Old memories of brightness
Calcined to one perfected whiteness.
The grave is dank and rotten;
Better by far to be forgotten
Than lie in mud and slime,
Cold, cold until the end of time.
The fire is warm and gentle;
The fire is fierce and elemental
And with a single goddam
Consumes the blasphemy of Sodom
So sedulous in squander
That Mr Wilde might care to ponder.

Good one, John. But I thought "forgotten" was American. Don't you guys say "forgot"?

I can't stop. Here's another:

When I Am Dead

When I am dead, cremate me.
There's no need to marinate me.
I'll be cooked, but you won't plate me.
I'll be something you will scatter.

Let the flames obliterate me.
Let the embers osculate me.
Say some words to celebrate me.
Or say nothing. It won't matter.

After all, it will post-date me.
What you say won't penetrate me.
Say you love me, say you hate me.
I'll be well beyond such chatter.

Sir Walter Raleigh said 'forgotten'. Alexander Pope said 'forgot'. What do I say? I say I forgot my umbrella and that is why I have a wet head. My umbrella lies forgotten in the porch.

When I am dead, cremate me,
though now it would elate me
if you'll incinerate me
with spicy beef panang.

My fancies culinary,
as well as funerary
burn quite incendiary,
and I've this deathly pang.

So stew some chiles clustered
with roman candles, mustard,
add pyrotechnic custard,
and sparklers for some tang.

I know it won't preserve me,
but still, it might well serve me,
if people should observe me
to go out with a bang.

Frank