Behold your grandfather's head,
like clocks of his namesake:
rusty gears, a dusty timeless face.
It's often kindness that kills them off
— 'Much better than the alternative',
like comparing abattoirs to harpoons.
Kindness, tell me more about yourself:
are you festooned with barbed edges?
can you be made from household products?
do you negate bar stools and pool cues
like Rock does Scissors, Scissors does Paper?
Standing room only at his ceremony.
It seemed the keys weren't played by hand
but the head of a narcoleptic organist.
They knew the atheists in their midst
and seated them behind salt pillars.
What would have happened had they arrived late?
For such a big man the casket had shrunk
tragically come the end. In his prime
six brass handles wouldn't have been enough,
unless wrapped in the fists of Superman.
He built a nightingale floor to catch rogue kids
tiptoeing to the fridge for his Guinness;
hosted séances for all the family deceased;
sacrificed himself to market surveys,
saving the time of shoppers never met;
campaigned for football salaries to be earned
with ten balls per match and boxing gloves.
He tackled ground zero with a eubank,
but no-one could bear to tell him
he was pushing a paint-roller.
He bore no animosity towards folk,
though he rain danced to ruin buskers,
and whilst some devote their thanks to God,
grandfather devoted his to Fuck.