And brass plaque replaces bone, While somewhere smoke billows From a chapel amid the willows. Folk go up in smoke instead Of being gently put to bed In kindly earth where trees Once surrounded to please In seas of stone tombstones Amid quiet where 'phone Is neither seen nor heard - Just the trill of a trim bird. Ah, but that is yesterday When memories grey Were stone and bone And death was not alone But comfortably asleep With others to keep Away the outside world While memories unfurl. Made of wood and brass, The new graves, alas, Contain not bones of yore, But someone's posterior.
What strange sort of folk Prefer to go up in smoke And replace cemeteries With wooden benches? Not me, that's for sure; Where I'm heading for Is made of solid stone, And I shall not be alone!