On the morning of your funeral, it felt odd to dress in black. The mood was celebratory – You weren’t ever coming back. "It's nice to see so many here," the chirpy vicar said. Little did she know that we were there to make sure you were dead. I look round at all the faces there, at your only legacy. The hurt, betrayed, the cheated - All combinations of those three. Your family stand there all serene and eulogize some lies about a warm honourable soul - It’s nobody we recognise. My florist, she refused to make a wreath out of nightshade so in the end Forget-me-nots were at your graveside laid. You would have seen the irony had you had any sense. We'd love to forget all about you and all you represent. The only tears we shed that day were strictly crocodilian, All hoping it was true what the eulogy said, that you were one in a million. I wish you were a zombie, so you could die again. Although it'd be a tricky shot, to shoot you in the brain. If only you'd been cremated, we could have robbed the Urn. We'd queue to piss into it -
Everyone could have a turn. The worlds a better place with you gone, your loss feels like a win. Whenever you left a party, It was like someone nice walked in. The grievers leave now, still aggrieved, all thinking what no-one said. "You were a cunt when you were living, you're still a cunt - just dead."