I want no one there who knew me  
find a young crew of miscreants
to do the deed: they can drink their suds,
play soccer with an empty can  
carry out my plebeian plan,
as long as they dump me
in a shallow hole--I don’t want
the buzzards to tire of the dig

I want no one there to say my name  
or utter some sap like,  
’tis a shame, the old guy’s gone  
just have them ram that shovel
hard into the devil’s dirt
wipe off the well earned sweat  
with a glove covered hand  
I don’t want bubbles  
on sissies' palms, to be my
blistered legacy