The Last Will And Testament Of A.F. Harrold

Er this is called Last Will
for very obvious reasons.

I want my hearse drawn slowly by four massive black horses
With black feathers round their hooves and on their heads
And I want them to be ridden by four women wearing sequins
And black stockings on their long lithe lissom legs

Because I don't want a celebration
I want black crêpe and veils
I want a humanist officiant
Drowned out by all the wails
And the blubbing and the crying
And the sobbing piteous yelps
I want women collapsing
And not getting any help
Because the men are all broken
And all shuddered up with tears
And I want them all sober
Not made maudlin by beer
I want slow and sombre music
Maybe Goodbye Pork Pie Hat
Or Górecki's great and sorrowful Third Symphony
And I want it all played badly
Out of tune and out of time
Because the bandleader just realised that
He misses me

Let one pallbearer stumble and drop my coffin
And I'd like the top to pop open
And show on my still youthful face
The harshness and abruptness
Of improbable waste
Let the men groan
And tear at their hair
And let the bald blokes
Find a hirsute chap to share
Let the women beat their breasts
And let those breasts be bare
Because although I'll never see them
Still, it's nice to know they're there

And once the service is over
You'll all go off to some place
Where you'll find a meal that I'd like to find there waiting
Not finger food and fairy cakes
But lamb chops, pork chops, sausages and sauce
And chicken and bacon, a variety of steaks
Roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots, beans and peas
And I want you to have seconds
And dessert and saying please
And thank you to the waiters
Is all I ask of you
And a hand with the washing up
Will help us save a bob or two

Then later on assemble
Every poet who's my friend
Or pal, associate, colleague
Comrade, acquaintance
And let them pull out poems
Written especially for me
And then burn them
Poetry being of no consequence
Let them each read one of mine
As my pyre's burning higher
Just to remind them that I've talked a lot of rot
And that whatever they thought I had
Was in the end at best not much
And all that's left is dust
And this is really not a celebration
As I said once before

And the next morning when you wake up
Get dressed, go out your door
Be thankful you're alive
And you're not me
Do those things I never managed
Grab your life with nerve and sinew
Gather ye virgins while ye may
Remember to do it Horace's way
Make great work if you've got it in you
But kiss this woman, kiss that man
Make love as often as you can
For the grave's a fine and private place
But it wipes the smile right off your face