Behold this decomposing verse
torn from its archived plot--
Perhaps we would be none the worse
had it been left to rot.



Uh oh. Here we go again!


Here lies an aging Boomer;
his ponytail was grey.
He warned his kids against the things
he once did every day.

And though he drove a Beemer,
we trust he rose on high
in a painted Bug to that
soul picnic in the sky.

If some day it comes to pass
you happen to exhume me,
would it be too much to ask
my next grave be more roomy?

In advance I paid a mint
for upkeep of this stone.
Visitor, was I deceived?
Has all my grass been mown?

.
Here among the rows
of old and weathered stones
is a promise of new bones.
This modern grave and pretty wreath
boast a Live Cam underneath –
watch me decompose!
.

Here lies John Whitworth.
Was all of his shit worth
Such Kentish ignominy?
Say an In nomine . . .

Sorry, John. I couldn't resist that!

Here at rest lies Michael Cantor,
Once a raver, once a ranter.
Let the silence of this ground
Keep him far from sight and sound.

Though Roger Slater
Won't come by later
To visit his plot,
He's not forgot.

Mike Todd
Has gone to God.
Mike is not amused
At being refused.

Here lie the bones of Orwin Acra,
Whose store of phosphate has been agri-
Culturally added to the weight
That Bryant said shared every fate.

[See "Thanatopsis"]