My favorite is the Gypsy Rose Lee one..."taken it all off at last"! *hahaha and eww*

Epitaph: Soldier

There was a war. I guess I died.
My mom and dad though must have cried.

LOVE the reference to Roethke in the last line :) For surely, when Gypsy Rose moved, she "moved more ways than one"...

R.



[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited March 15, 2007).]

Donor

Kidneys, eyeballs, teeth and knees,
help yourself to all of these.
As I'm dead, why should I care--
every organ is a spare.

and then there is the classic by Max Adeler:

Obituary

Little Alexander's dead;
Jam him in a coffin;
Don't have as good a chance
For a fun'ral often.

Rush his body right around
To the cemetery;
Drop him in the sepulchre
With his Uncle Jerry.

[This message has been edited by Martin Rocek (edited March 20, 2007).]

. . . . and as you sit, below I moulder;
Be thankful you're not even colder.

My ass is down below the sod
Still waiting for that kick from God.

I wish that I were feeling better.
That won't happen anymore.
Beneath the sod, it's always wetter
And the worms here are a bore.

Here lies Jacob, trials past--
finally laid and stiff at last.

Here lies Bill Clinton--this grave his,
and he is dead--and "is" is "is."

Epitaph for a Beauty
Sort of like Susan McLean's Gypsy Rose Lee epitaph except I don't know what ecdysiast means.

WARNING: There are words in this epitaph.

Are you sure you want to read it?

It's kind of gross. You might want to skip it.

Most men preferred to see my lovely skin
Right where they all would rashly stick it in.
But now I wait, and no man wants to stare
Through fresh-made worm holes in my underwear.

I warned you.

WARNING: not for the faint of heart


POOR, POOR, CHENEY


Here lies that scampy Scooter,
he did a clever trick:
the only man to neuter
a Bush from his own Dick.


Robert Meyer

There was always something in his way,
And now there's death, who's here to stay.

Epitaph for One Afraid

He was not loved by God nor man,
And only sought to be.
He held his breath, and now he can
Hold it still constantly.

Here lies Don the 'Ho'
(not "Tiny Bubbles" fame)
whose flaming radio
tongue now seems strangely tame.

Robert Meyer

Here lies Imus
his tongue now fettered
by Scarlet Knights
- not scarlet lettered.

In this earth is placed
Don Imus. We propose
his monument be graced
with "nappy headed hos."

Reflect upon Don Imus
felled by a racial smear. His
life may not be over,
but God knows, his career is.

Marion's Epitaph

Behold this stone, lest you forget
this mortal, sinful to the core,
who left the world with one regret:
she wished she'd sinned a little more

Revision 337

Although some assholes buried me,
I am not dead by half -
a poet's urge roars endlessly
to tweak this epitaph.


Revision 338

Although some assholes buried me,
I am not dead by half -
a poet must work endlessly
to tweak his epitaph.


Revision 339

Although Free-Versers buried me,
I am not dead by half -
Formalists live endlessly
in clever epitaph.



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited April 17, 2007).]

Departed Spherians

They're out there somewhere, giving crits,
and, most likely, picking nits.

Passerby, tell Marion Shore
her last line needed one foot more.

Passerby, tell Michael he's
a little off in counting, please.
The fingers on a partial hand
can count to four, promoting "and."
If he can write a headless line
he surely ought to honor mine.

A Memorial Over an Urn

Here lies the Forum Poet; ne’er to rot
His words live on, although his body’s ashed.
And never will his poems be forgot.
As long as Google lives, his posts are cached.

A Memorial Over a Folgers Can

The Forum Critic flopped; here lies the man.
We barely fit his ashes in this can.
His bulk is gone; his spirit’s not departed.
It lives on in the flame wars he has started.

A Memorial Over a Mayonnaise Jar

Here lies the Lurker, never to log in.
He did no goodly deed, nor did he sin.
He came, he saw, did nothing. All the same,
The rock is blank. He had no username.


Revision:

A Memorial Over an Urn

Here lies the Forum Poet, ne’er to rot.
His words live on, although his body’s ashes.
And never will his poems be forgot.
His post remain, unless the server crashes.

A Memorial Over a Mayonnaise Jar

"Here lies the Lurker, never to log in.
He did no goodly deed, nor did he sin.
He came, he saw, did nothing, kinda lame."
The rest is blank. He had no username.


[This message has been edited by Eric Hendrixson (edited June 09, 2007).]

Here lies the auditor, and may God bless
This good, true servant of the IRS.
He now takes up his pencil and begins
To calculate deductions on his sins.

I liked the Fogler's can one, Eric!


It Happens to the Best of Us

He was the best until the germs
Got into him and made him fall.
"I won the world," he told the worms,
But they don't hear that well at all.

"Michael," the wrathful ghost did thunder,
"To chide my feet is quite a blunder
when those same feet are six feet under."

It seems her life was just rehearsal
for a metrical reversal.
"Did thunder" really should be "thundered",
even if you're six feet undered.

......The Connoisseur

The Master wields his critical currycomb
......with infinite care,
proving that charity begins at home--
......and sometimes stays there.

......The Actor's Last Bow

Tonight was the end of the run.
Though I was the feature, the fun-
eral’s over and finished and done.

Before I died, and went to hell,
I had this stone set here to tell
You, though I went ahead of you,
It won't be long till you're gone, too.

Though I am dead and with old Nick
in H-E-double-hockey-sticks,
don't grieve too much, oh comrades dear--
before too long, you'll join me here.

I'm itchy, stiff, my back is sore,
so spurn the gifts I gave.
Nothing now would please me more
than turning in my grave.

This one's for me.


Buried here, beside her mare,
Equestrian extraordinaire.
Alas, she spurred her brave steed on
Despite the cliff, now both are gone.

He was fabulously infamous.
Now he is down below.
So come and spit upon his grave.
Come rant your broken heart out--rave,
But he will never know.

Death put an end to my rash quest
For meaning--Meaning: all the best
Of what I found was like this rhyme
That teased me just to waste my time.

In death as life I have the final word.
I was a critic. Now I lie interred.

edited to make less in your face. Thanks Jerry. Lines reversed as suggested.



[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited May 16, 2007).]

Here lies a joke misunderstood
By someone who was dull but good.
Well bred, it showed good taste and died
So virtue was not mortified.
Heroic joke, it stopped the rumour
That virtue lacked a sense of humour.

Janet - may I offer a crit / suggestion, to suggest another meaning for 'lie'?

In death as life I have the final word.
I was a critic. Now I lie interred.

The Klutzy Agnostic

Damned if I didn’t
trip and hit
my head on the pavement
- damned if I did.

I thought I was cured of these. Back to the shrink.

I rushed the car ahead of me
To move its butt a bit.
It braked. I was too rushed to see
Those bright red lights I hit.

At fifty-eight, Viagra strong
And ready, he was firm and long.
His steroids charged with his brave heart
And died from push-ups on a tart.