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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.

— The End —