I am fed to the fens, since fenced off
My friends all dressed in black, femme fatale Sherilyn Fen
They kindly compare me to Sheridan La Fanu
After all he’d been through, no one imagined he’d die to a flu
Just goes to show no day promised, that adage is true
Of course, he had addictions too but they’re glossed over in a word or two
The priest reads the room, sees they are gloomy and eager to be gone
Winds it up and sends them home, receives an invite per custom but refuses
Out of kindness, besides he’s off the booze since he got the news
Everyone speaks to a priest but who does he speak to, other than for medical advice
God I suppose but he’s not reposed best for such customs, he delights
In taking a while to reply, besides he’s not a social guy.
That’s my send off then, they send the priest off with a decent wedge
For a nice ceremony, light on the judgement, on the edge
Of the church grounds by topiary hedging bid farewell
They toast my health, some cards he was dealt eh
He’ll surely burn in hell, he’d tell you that, hell
Raiser in his day, hair raiser, pint and pussy chaser
Do you feel like another? They smother
Grief in pints of porter, Mother of God wasn’t he a lovely man
Did you ever read anything he wrote?
No but he was a lovely bloke, always wrote
Me a Christmas card – everything was a joke.
Alchemisland 
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