Here lies the body, here dies the verse.
Words whisked off into an unforgiving air.
A eulogy for no one, an insult for a care.
There goes the poor poet in the hers.
Off to be buried in grass green and fair,
Where lies his wife, naked and bare.
No one says a kind farewell, for no one is there.

Here lies the body, here dies the thanks.
The bankers hands rub together at the news.
A life they lead on, a death they’ll abuse.
For the end is a cheque cashed in his banks.  
No kin can collect, or have his house to use.
Mould reeks from windows- filth and mildew.
And no one dares to enter except for the cranks.

But in his filth they find old heaps of paper.
And in his words the find old and sweet peace:
A world, A vision, a home to more than lees.
A life to lead, a truth to seek. A world much greater
than the one around them that crawls about to cease
of any kind of kindness. And here hope is deceased.
Take his words, leave your worries. We can all worry later.