The deceased’s last meal,

(Said the man with antiseptic hands

And water drumming in his metal sinks)

Was a cheese and tomato omelette

Cheap Red Leicester, mass-grown tomato,

But the eggs, they may have been free-range,

In keeping with his professed principles.

 

The deceased’s last words, we’d like to think,

Were something stirring for the Empire, but,

And here I must be brutally frank, probably

He just said arrgh, or possibly oh bugger.

 

The deceased’s apparel was a pair of tennis shoes

Some socks which – well, let’s just say

They’d seen better days, and maybe better feet,

A ratty fleece with food-stains, a t-shirt

With a print of a lizard – he liked that –

Must have, the weeks he'd worn it; green cotton trousers,

and skanky boxers we cut off and threw away.

 

The deceased’s last thoughts were of green fields, trees,

And girls he’d known, and creatures he’d befriended;

But no-one knew, no-one’s counting

And there is no tick box

For that, on the report held under fluorescent lights

in hands encased in latex gloves,

filed in the drawer marked “dead” – and so is he.

 

The deceased left a ball of string

Comprising various Gordian tangles -

He called it his bank account;

Good luck unravelling that, oh,

And a house full of old shit, unopened letters

And pictures of Victorians with whiskers -

We skipped the lot: it was easier

Than trying to trace a non-existent family.

 

The deceased left a nest of paper

Scribbled with all sorts of crap

No-one could make head nor tail of,

And a few books, some of which he’d written -

We burnt the lot, nobody wanted it,

We couldn’t be arsed,

And anyway, Big Brother was on the box.

 

You might think his life was wasted, unremarked:

No way! Take hope! Next week,

At least his wheelchair will fly again,

With a brand new pilot!