On Turning Corpses into Compost
−from a story in the New York Times
Don’t lay me in alfalfa pellets when my life is o’er!
I’m not a pile of compost like some rotten apple core.
I want a casket sturdy, and a grave with concrete lined
Where I await the Resurrection comfortably confined.
I am not crazy to be processed for my children’s terrace,
Nourishing a rose bush for some ever-loving heiress.
There’s nothing much organic you will find in my cadaver,
So let us not continue with this ghoulish-like palaver.
Of course I know the body to the worms eventually goes,
But let it happen gradually through summers and long snows!
Don’t rush me into potting soil to grow your garden salad;
You’ll find I’ll make the lettuce far too bitter and quite pallid.
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