300,000 years amount to this:
the way we treat the living’s best unsaid.
No shocker, then, regarding the abyss,
we’re little better processing the dead.
We’re told that out of sight is out of mind.
Put grandma underground and let her rot.
‘Back to the soil,’ it’s pompously defined.
But who among us started from that spot?
Burn grandpa like they did to mystic crones.
Expose him to a thousand-plus degrees.
Then get some yob to rake the old boy’s bones
and mix them with a stiff once called Louise.
A sea despatch, though fine for Captain Cook,
was later used to disrespect Osama.
But those who still insist it’s worth a look
would balk at all the bureaucratic drama.
Progressives push the view it’s not the worst
to transfer our remains to medicine;
but guessing what the kids would hack off first
would scarcely take the brains of Edison.
Other ways have entered the equation,
like plastination by that German quack,
Walter Disney’s cryopreservation,
or else synthetic diamonds in a sack;
but honestly, they just exist for gold,
for companies to profit to the max.
Let’s hope you’ve gained the wits before you’re cold
to circumvent a final Idiot Tax.
In all, what’s less convenient than death?
Does any means of junking us feel true?
In my case, when I’ve said farewell to breath,
just chuck me to the lions at the zoo.
(First published in 'Talking To Skeletons') 
See News