Funeral Derangements

Make my coffin a wheelie-bin,
you won’t even have to dismember my limbs
- short & before my suicide I 
got real thin.
There might still be space to chuck out my belonging.

Bury me in a compost heap,
don’t put your back out 
putting this creep 6-deep.
Clothes-pegs at the ready in case it gets whiffy.
If maggots turn up their noses, 
the worms won‘t be so picky.

Inter me in a portaloo
Polish pallbearers back from the pub lug.
Like a Gulliver bartender 
mixing a cocktail of poo,
let them shake that shouse 
till the undertaker’s gotta
anally bleach back my pallor.

Hey Farmer Karma,
You can sow me, reap me manana…
Mulch of my marrow means tomorrow 
to the cabbage and the carrot.
When you’re shite at life l/ moi, 
it makes sense 
we’re manure at peace.
Muck becomes crystalclear
when death comes as a relief.

Throw me in a mass grave
entirely of my own clones laid.
Or just flytip my cadaver
in a wheelbarra
- who needs the Co-op when you got
council taxpayers?

ACDC do dirty deeds
& they’re done dirt cheap,
so park my carcass outside the tourbus,
fiver clenched in rigor mortis.
Or just wrap my corpse in a bow
for Ol’ Des Nilsen this Christmas.

For my epitaph in the snow you can piss
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’.
Or if it‘s too cold to go,
leave it pristine as it coats
& just say you whizzed a list
of my accomplishments.
I appreciate the sentiment.

Hey Farmer Karma,
You can sow me, reap me manana…
Mulch of my marrow means tomorrow 
to the radish & the marrow.
When you’re shite at life l/ moi, 
it makes sense 
we’re manure at peace. 
Muck becomes crystalclear 
when death comes as a relief.