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In the days of Thomas Gray, a narrow plot
In the churchyard was what everybody got.
But now, with British population soaring,
Those who organise such matters are imploring
That we all should call a total moratorium
On filling graveyards — we should use the crematorium.

Yes the crem — we can’t help knowing
That is where our lives are going.
Both the smoothie and the geekish,
The conventional, the freakish,
And the dullard and the wit,
Both the athlete super fit
And the heavy smoker coughing up his phlegm —
They’ll all end up at the crem.

Both the slutty and the proper,
Both the crooked and the copper,
Those who decorate interiors,
And the very very serious,
And the fervent Corbynista
And her fashionista sister
Who’s obsessed by the length of a hem —
They’ll all end up at the crem crem crem
They’ll all end up at the crem.

Those whose figures are delicious
And the vapid and the vicious,
Yes, the bright and the dyspeptic,
The religious and the sceptic,
And the butcher and the baker
And of course the undertaker
And you and me and he and she and them —

We’ll all end up at the crem-a-bloody-torium,
We’ll all end up at the crem!