[Roger Slater]

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

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Jayne Osborn]

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!

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Jayne Osborn]

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...

[Edmund Conti]

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.

[Roger Slater]

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.

[Edmund Conti]

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

[Roger Slater]

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.

.

[Roger Slater]

(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.