Make my coffin a wheelie-bin, you won’t even have to dismember my limbs - short and 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 ***** at life like moi it makes sense you’re manure at peace. Mud 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 ***** deeds and 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 **** ‘Good riddance to bad *******’. Or if it‘s too cold to go, leave it pristine where it coats and just say you whizzed a list of my accomplishments. I appreciate the sentiment.
Hey Farmer Karma, You can sow me, reap me manana… Sow me, grow me, mow me, reap me! Sow me, grow me, mow me, reap me! Mulch of my marrow means tomorrow to the radish and the marrow. When you’re ***** at life like moi it makes sense we’re manure at peace. Mud becomes crystalclear when death comes as a relief.