a lighthearted guide to the art of saying the unsayable
When the Grim Reaper comes to call,
What will you tell them all?
Will you say if they enquire
He's gone to join the celestial choir
Or when greeting the undertaker
Say he's gone to meet his Maker
Or might you say, as if by rote
He's donned his wooden overcoat
Will your mind's whirring cogs
Decide that I've popped my clogs
Perhaps you'll think that there's no harm
In saying that I've bought the farm
Or even say if you must
That I'm afraid he's bit the dust
Perhaps you'll burn the midnight oil
To say he's shuffled off his mortal coil
He's six feet under, afraid he's snuffed it
Poor old soul, he's kicked the bucket