When I am Gone
Just boil me up and make a tasty stew
Or compost me the good old-fashioned way,
With clockwork motors make me live anew,
Inflate me and just watch me float away.
Once I am gone, please use me as you will,
My body is no further use to me,
The thought of being buried makes me ill,
So light me up and make a Christmas tree.
If it gives any comfort to my heirs,
Put fireworks in my ears and up my nose,
Don’t insult me with piety and prayers,
Just call me names by any other rose.
When I am gone, play football with my head,
For if you don’t, I might as well be dead.
Comments
insertponceyfre... | February 25, 2010 - 14:15
Skunk, that's perfect
Margharita | February 25, 2010 - 14:49
Perfect indeed. Sums up my own view. The original sonnet is one of my favourites, and you've used it beautifully.
Skunk | February 25, 2010 - 17:29
Thanks for the comments, ipfn and Margharita.
I've seen rather a lot recently of people who want to be buried beneath willow trees. Just thought I'd redress the balance a little.
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a turnip field
That is for ever Skunkdom.
SundaysChild | February 26, 2010 - 05:58
A brilliant poem indeed
Belle Green | March 19, 2010 - 16:18
Excellent. Please check your e-mail or e-mail me:)Abctales print magazine:)