In Memorium.

It was rather sweet of Simon to leave us the contents of the house,
Not really having anyone else to leave it to,
Who would want it.
Or should that read,
Who would want it?

The funeral was lovely.
We all muttered suitable Pagan liturgies,
That he’d written especially for the occasion.
Placed his body in the longboat,
And set it adrift to the sound of horns,
Ablaze,
Just as he’d requested.
It caused rather some chaos in the Solent,
What with the Isle of White ferry catching alight like that.
But he would have wanted it that way.

The National Trust snapped up the house straight away,
It being a monument of national importance of course.
The British Museum has been in touch about his bottle collection for re-cycling sometime,
Believing there may be a couple of items of interest there.

His collage of exploded PC parts,
And his Retro junk computers,
We sold for the gold content,
And made almost twenty five pence.

The box of condoms he bought in 1988,
But never used because the relationship ended,
Is up for auction at Sotheby’s next week.
We have great hopes for that.

As be quested we appended his last published works with his death haiku;
“Bugger me that hurts,
Oh shit I think this is it,
Nothing better to…..”

His extensive collection of seventies bus tickets (from his school years),
We donated to the national transport museum.
The British medical foundation believe there may be an undiscovered cure for cancer,
In the fungi on the pile of used teabags from his kitchen.
So they got those.

His published works you’ll know,
His legion of unfinished work one of his brothers has taken,
To re-construct in the style of the Silmarillion,
Only more influenced by acid and paranoia.

And finally his collection of empty cardboard boxes,
The Tate bought as a piece of installation art,
For twenty million quid,
Which was nice!