This is to honour Milton Friedman,
the thinking harlot's good is greed man,
The customer is always right where
lesser mortals see a nightmare.
Dig it, fell it, drain, despite their
lamentations. See if I care.

Quincy Lehr, so what?
Just let him rot.

Top of the class,
he failed to pass
the test of life –
his kids and wife.

ETCHED IN STONE

1.

They said I was a 'hypochondriac',
but now, I guess, they’ll have to take it back.


2.

Here lies Mozart,
dead, not dozing,
a great composer
decomposing.

3.

Poor guy, his lot in life was sad.
He wasn’t smart and he wasn’t rich.
He wronged the one true friend he had.
And so I killed the son-of-a-bitch.


4.

Here, beneath this slab of stone,
flesh degraded, crumbling bone,
lies a man who hoped you’d laugh
to read a flippant epitaph.

The doctors tried but couldn’t cure a
dying man who with bravura
wrote this rhyme so all might laugh
to read a flippant epitaph.

His thoughts? He could not write them all.
Art is long. The stone is small.
So he resolved to make you laugh
to read a flippant epitaph.

5.

They put my body in this hole
with a marker to make it appear
that this is the address of my soul.
It’s not. Just my body is here.

Quincy, Duncan and Roger/Bob, great stuff.

Keep em coming. I might choose my own from the bunch. At least I would if I didn't know I'll end up in an urn--if I'm lucky.

Here lies Janet in this urn
Who willed that her remains should burn.
Reflect upon the way she went:
She cared for the environment.

[BTW did any of you see the scene in "Meet the Fockers" where Mother's ashes fall off the mantelpiece and the cat starts digging in them... but that's another story]

1.
Buried six feet under,
beneath this stone rests Marion,
where she will not be plundered
by birds and beasts of carrion.


2.
Although she left with lots
of baggage, did our Marion,
She's learning she can't take
it with her, not even carry-on.


3.
Beloved friends, don't grieve for me,
I've taken that celestial road
To where there's an infinity
of Honeymooners episodes.

On urn burials, there is this Herrick classic:

......In this little urn is laid
......Prudence Baldwin, once my maid,
......From whose happy spark here let
......Spring the purple violet.

Re "Meet the Fokkers," how about Judi Dench's disposal of the ashes in <u>The Shipping News</u>?



[This message has been edited by Jan D. Hodge (edited August 06, 2008).]

The Suicides

Here lies John,
who couldn't hack it,
so put on
a daisy jacket.

Here lies Pete,
who couldn't cope,
so aired his feet
beneath a rope.

Here lies Bill,
who sighed, "Alas."
Took a pill,
and now he's grass.

Here lies Jim,
who railed at fate,
or most of him,
at any rate.

Here lies Mark,
a heap of ash;
a whole heap higher
than his heap of cash.

Marion, Jan and Rose and Mark--you set the bar high.

Alkan

Here lies a pianist so crushed
by learning that his work was hushed.
Felled by a bookcase in his prime
the victim beat his proper time.
Alkan, though curious, expired
beneath the wisdom he’d acquired.


Isadora Duncan

Isadora died maintaining
elegance without complaining.
Throttled by a scarf she guessed
her final gesture was well dressed.

(mine)

I am so cross now that I'm dead.
I haven't heard what people said.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited November 22, 2006).]

We strew Frank's ashes on the bay today; don't weep.
At last, he's breezy, with a touch of grey - and deep.

The flowers bloom, then turn to seed;
The hands move slowly 'round the dial.
I should have brought a book to read—
It seems I'll be here for a while.

Here lies Cat.
And that's that.

Beneath this stone my mortal clay
lies still and cold within a box.
I'll miss the joys of life, but hey--
Better here than watching FOX.

I'll write my own self-mocking epitaph,
and rest assured I've had the final laugh.


[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited November 22, 2006).]

Here lies Johnny Murphy
who was always laid back
he smoked marijuana
cocaine and crack.
He lies in this graveyard
alas and alack
a stone at his head
saying;Keep off the Grass.

Dearly Departed

I.
He liked to say he'd tried his best.
I hope his soul has earned its rest,
for while he tried a lot of stuff,
his best just wasn't good enough.

II.
He always got the final word.
A pity that he never heard
the warning shout before the blow--
he was too busy talking. So,
now that he's silently interred,
his tombstone reads, "Look out below!"

III.
God forgive your departed servant,
condescending, snide, and arrogant.
God help the rest of us that we might
forgive him the sin of being right.

IV.
She had the most exhaustive store
of where she'd been and what she knew.
On any subject she understood more--
she'd been there, done that ahead of you.
I imagine she's been to Hell before
and is telling Lucifer what to do.

Carol Taylor

"Loud enough to wake the dead,"
.... they say. Now that I'm gone,
if you can find a noise like that,
.... I beg you, bring it on!

Jim--

Not to be a pedant, but only one of the three drugs you mention is "grass"--and one doesn't smoke cocaine.

Quincy

On Spike Milligan's headstone;

Duirt liom go raibh me tinn

I told you I was sick

Thanks Quincy I wouldn't know but for other worldly souls I emend it to

Remember John Murray
always laid back?
He smoked marijuana
then moved up to crack.
He lies in this graveyard
alacl and alas
a stone at his head
warning;"Keep off the Grass!"

Death, I give to you your due.
Though Donne proclaimed he was not cowed
or awed before the likes of you,
and once upon a time I vowed
that I would feel the same way, too,
lately, I confess, I'm wowed
by all the damage that you do.
So go ahead, death. Yes, be proud.
You have the right, as Donne well knew.

Acclaimed, at last, but none will ever know it
(that's me within The Tomb of the Unknown Poet.)

Janet, these are so habit-forming, it's scary!

1.
That perfect peace was all I craved,
as those weary years kept advancing--
But now day and night upon my grave
I hear my friends a'dancing.


2.
To find renown in youth was her aim,
which of course today seems preposterous—
For now she's gone, it's clear that her fame,
if it finds her at all, will be posthumous.


3.
Here lies old what's-his-name, the swine,
for whom my tears once fell.
And though forgiveness is divine
I hope he rots in hell.

The Death of the Muse

Within this heavy box her ashes lie -
one thousand sonnets, villanelles and more -
She burned them all, and now will simply try
to find a mate who doesn't fart or snore.

[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited November 25, 2006).]

Give her a fireplace and shelves
of books, a chair, a table.
And she shall want for nothing else--
Oh yeah! Except for cable!

Here lies a poor gal from Nantucket
who had a stroke of bad luck. It
seems as she mopped
she slipped and she flopped
to the ground, thereby kicking the bucket.

Oooh...I know! Sorry! http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/redface.gif

Since my immortal soul
Has long since flown away,
There's nothing in this hole
Except a mortal Clay.

Ashes to ashes,
mildew to mildew,
God said, "Come home."
I answered, "Will do."

Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd

And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly
By falling down a well.

They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.

-- Mark Twain

She never could leave well alone;
she changed her poems from day to day
and couldn't put the things away.
They're finished now. She's dead and gone.

Carol

Here lies a player of poetry's poker.
She played for high stakes, but was still mediocre.

Here lies a champagne socialist
who died both virtuous and pissed.

Here lies a Marxist CEO
whose heart was red but not for show.
“Better in the black”, he said,
“I’ll come out of hiding once I’m dead.”


Here lies a prig who took his life
when disappointed by his wife.
Here lies his wife who lived to laugh,
which proved she was the better half.




[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited November 22, 2006).]

(I know this isn't an epitaph, but Marion's constant interest in the classics inspired me, and I don't know where else to put it:

There was a young man from Nantucket,
who ate every clam in the bucket.
Said he with a grin,
as he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear were an oyster, I'd shuck it!"

Now - back to epitaphs:

I am that young man from Nantucket
you've heard of, and I've had bad luck: it
occured on my boat -
something tickled my throat -
I bit through it so I could upchuck it.



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited November 22, 2006).]

And let's not overlook Dryden's classic:

........Here lies my wife: here let her lie!
........Now she's at rest, and so am I.

Here lies Michael Cantor
A critter we loved to curse
Whose egotistical banter
Always made matters verse.

Here lies the remains of Marion Shore
Whose verse shall grace the Sphere no more.
She climbed such heights to great acclaim
Then lost her footing and died of shame.

And what can be said of Roger Slater
which hasn’t been said before?
We knew he’d get it, sooner than later,
But he never got Marion Shore.