Requiem

When my dad is gone, and the time is upon us to
say bye bye, quantify the hand he was dealt,
do not wear black suits, wear overalls; if you must do
the morbid thing, clip about yourself a black tool belt

of leather, broken by weather. Do not have carved
as a lazy ta ta: RIP. Int' Great Building Site Int' Sky,
where a problem sawed is a problem halved
he may rest in noise; whistles for fit angels passing by.

Back here, he lived in peace. In the latter part of life
he employed himself, learnt to comb plaster, and
temptations bounced off him like tennis balls. His wife,
his kids, his unworkingclass home, a van: all he planned.

Prod cat-pee smelling wet artex with index finger, show he
lived in peace, got loads of sleep at night. Write "L.I.P."

I'd like to think he'll hook up with Joe - you know -
J.C.'s dad. Admire each others DIY, pat each other's back
the way dads do: "No way our sons could do that!". Then go
round Paradise pointing out, "That's the house I built, Jack."

Take the pencil from your ear, put plywood on your knee,
next to measurements - in inches - write... "L.I.P."

Make sure it's sanded, and the finish is good on the coffin lid
but before dirt is thrown, a coffin-lid-shaped stencil will be
lowered by me and my mum and our kid and our kid
then when it's raised we'll see, in black soil font: "L.I.P."

Grab a retractable Stanley knife, take your lover to a tree,
scratch together, leave forever: "L.I.P."

(And in my grieving dreams that ruddy face will scowl at me:
"You've got a nerve. Don't give me cheek. Don't give me

L.I.P.")