Old Geoffrey was cremated there today,

But weeping wasn’t wanted, and was checked.

The minister kept chins up, though we prayed

With chins down, dictated by etiquette.

Where were my flowers? I was quite upset

They weren’t delivered. Geoffrey was let down;

Some incompetent floral bureaucrat

Ignored instructions from Manchester town

With respect to our bouquet. His renown,

However, undiminished, as his day

On this earth is finished. We’ll resurrect

His memory, though his ashes are blown.

And so, as cruel April turns to May,

I’ll raise a glass of cider in respect.

(Cider was Geoff's favourite tipple)