Speccie Dead End
 

We expended a lot of blood, sweat and tears on this but only the ingenious Chris O'Carroll won the elusive bays. Good for him. We must up our game for this next one.

No. 2709: DEAD END
In the film Wilde, Queensberry, in conversation with Wilde, asks his position on cremation. Wilde doesn’t have one but Queensberry says, ‘When I am dead, cremate me.’ You are invited to take this as your first line and continue, in verse, for up to a further 15. Please email entries, where possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 10 August.

Is it creMATE me?

When I am dead, cremate me,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant not me ‘neath the willow
Nor shady cypress tree:
Let not the oven sputter
With showers and dewdrops wet;
Let not me wilt like flowers,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not fear the whisk-broom,
I shall not feel the rain;
When I am in the dust-bin,
Sing on, as if in pain.
No clock’s alarm shall rouse one
That doth not rise and set,
And haply may I sleep long
And haply may forget.

Yes, Roger. As you see. Nice one, Sam.

When I am dead, cremate me,
Or bury me instead,
Or let me rot upon the road.
Who cares? I will be dead.

Or take me to death valley.
Let vultures have a feast
Upon my lifeless carcass.
I won't care in the least.

So go ahead, cremate me,
Then load me in your urn.
When I become the late me,
It won't be my concern.

When I am dead, cremate me.
Wrap me up tight and crate me,
Then just incinerate me
Like unattended bread.

With cakes and ale then fête me
And lovingly debate me.
Feel free to celebrate me
By quoting things I said.

Rather than overrate me,
Discreetly understate me.
Be gentle with the late me;
Speak kindly of the dead.

Then you may relocate me.
Scoop up my dust and freight me
And then disseminate me
Where angels fear to tread

When I am dead, cremate me,
if that's what you'd advise me.
Or bury me. I can't decide.
Why don't you just surprise me?

That "late me" is a touch of genius, Ann.

Ann's is better for sure, Sam, but did you read mine? (post #5}

When I am dead, cremate me,
but heed what I have said.
Don't even start the furnace
until you're sure I'm dead.

Hold a mirror to my mouth.
I may be breathing still.
But once you're certain I am gone,
just toss me on the grill.

And when you're done with cooking
and there's nothing left but ash,
sweep me in a paper bag
and dump me in the trash.

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

When I am dead, cremate me,
but let's not jump ahead.
Do not assassinate me,
don't bomb or detonate me,
don't stab and ventilate me,
don't snuff or liquidate me,
don't drown or dehydrate me,
or worse, defenestrate me,
and don't exterminate me,
and don't obliterate me,
and don't annihilate me,
and don't eviscerate me,
and don't depopulate me,
and don't deactivate me.
I said you could cremate me,
but I said "When I am dead."

That's good, Roger. Sounds like Dylan :D

Grass Fingers
Angelina Weld Grimke

Touch me, touch me,
Little, cool grass fingers,
Elusive, delicate grass fingers,
With your shy brushings;
Touch my face--
My naked arms--
My thighs--

My feet.
Is there nothing that is kind?
You need not fear me.
Soon I shall be too far beneath you
For you to reach me, even
With your tiny, timorous toes.

That's how I find all my rhymes. No wonder I write ignominious stuff like this (which I don't think I'll submit, but had to get out of my system before I could get to work on a real entry):

‘When I am dead, cremate me’,
Quoth he. Life cries, ‘Fellate me!
Open me! Penetrate me!’
What though some Peer berate me,
The law incarcerate me,
Newspapers denigrate me?
Whatever griefs await me,
I feel your love elate me.
Let ordeals consecrate me,
Art rehabilitate me.

Post mortem, ash and urn me.
Alive, I feel you burn me
With such an exquisite flame
That it dare not speak its name
Lest a frowned-on piece of tail
Land a bloke in Reading Gaol.

why the apologetics?
 

Blimey, I use RhymeZone when necessary, thesaurus, anything. All resources are legitimate except one – plagiarism. It's what you do with the stuff you look up that counts.

When I am dead, cremate me
if you can’t resuscitate me.
If you can, it would be damnable
to prove that I am flammable.
But if you cannot rouse me,
then find an urn to house me.

It's not that I am eager
to become a pile of meager
crumbly ashes in an urn
when the reaper says Your turn.
But it strikes me as less gruesome
than to let some maggot chew some
of my flesh when they entomb me.
I'd rather flames consume me.
.
.

It ain't plagiarism until you are found out. Though I must confess I wouldn't care to win with someone else's verse.

Or worse, you could lose with someone else's verse. At least if you win you can claim good taste in what you steal.

Fellas and girls, I hate to break it to, ya. Ann's is the winner.

Ann, Bazza, Bill, Chris, John. That leaves one more spot to fight over.

When I am dead, cremate me,
then go cremate as well
the books and manuscripts I wrote
my agent could not sell,

then choose a lovely, peaceful place
where I may be consigned,
then shove my burned-up books inside
my agent's fat behind.

That one's great, as well as your post #5 and #10, Bob. (Oh, and 18, 21 and 27!) As you were the first to go for 'the late me', and Ann did too, I don't feel so bad about using it as well (and we won't be the only ones, I'm sure).

When I am dead, cremate me.
(I’ll even sign a form.)
With me, it’s always been the norm
to feel most comfortably warm.
My chilly friends berate me:

“How can you wear a sleeveless dress?
It’s only twelve degrees!
This gale-force wind you call a breeze
makes you feel ‘cool’, while we all freeze,”
they'll add, with some distress.

Yes, when I’m dead, cremate me.
(I’d hate to putrefy.)
Stand near, then turn the heat up HIGH,
- you cold friends, there to say goodbye.
Be hot, just like the ‘late’ me!

When I am dead, cremate me.
It's always been my goal
to crumble into ashes on
a lump of red-hot coal,

to burst in flames and fall apart,
to gambol and cavort
with mulch and sand and flecks of dirt
and dead things of that sort.

Then wait until the ashes cool,
then take them in your palm
and weep for me while muttering
a pretty verse or psalm,

then toss me in a wave that laps
a narrow band of shore,
commend me to the undertow,
and think of me no more.

Bob, Lucy should devote the whole page to you for this comp! You have to win with one of your excellent entries, or I shall go and... well, I'll think of something... ;)

It’s really CRE-mate me, which is a tough sell.

When I am dead, CRE-mate me
If my king is up a TREE, mate me.
Comparing one’s to a chessboard
Is stale, mate, and leaves you—yes—bored.

OK, that doesn’t work. Back to the drawing board or chessboard.

Whne I am dead, cremate me
Just don’t anticipate me
Do not start the fires yet
I worry that you might forget
That I’m alive and somehow let
The mourners celebrate me.

I want a small cremation
Not one of your creation
Where movie stars and famous guys
That I don’t know will eulogize
My burning body with their lies
As I await damnation.

If you’ve reserved no prior place
Then throw me in the fireplace.
Have some sherry for the ladies
If you have some prayers, say these.
Have your fun with jokes of Hades
Or some other final dire place.

Oops, over 15 lines. No matter. This isn't going anywhere.

Ed, just enter your first 12 lines. I bet they win. But the fireplace rhyme is priceless, so make it 14 lines even though it throws the closure off a bit. You get 16 total. Just have to find a way to lose 2 lines, really. But do give it a shot. I've arranged with Lucy to have her waive the entry fee.

PS-- If you just leave out your current lines 15-16, it's good to go.

Thanks, Roger, I will fiddle with it and give it a shot.

When I am dead, cremate me.
I will not need my body
when no one sane would date me.
Today I'm not too shoddy.
Big muscles decorate me,
and some say I'm a great me.
But once I am the late me
and my flesh grows soft and rotty,
what girl would osculate me,
caress or copulate me?
Who'd kiss a second rate me?
Who'd love an insensate me?
They'd have to be plain dotty.
So grill me, abrogate me,
then flush me down the potty.

.

(a revision of one posted above)



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

Let no morgue refrigerate me.
Do not let embalmers near.
They'd only marinate me.
It's the pickling that I fear.