Against My Will Poem by Alastair Buchan

Now I'm not one to voice dissent
At lukewarm food, nor unpaid rent,
But goodness grief, for pity's sake,
I've been cremated by mistake.

It wasn't me that made the blunder;
Ticked the box marked 'six feet under',
So when I went to see St Peter
He would say 'it's nice to meet ya',
Look upon my porcelain face,
And help me through the Pearly Gates.

But he won't shake my charcoal hand,
That crumbles, cracks like moistened sand.
'I'm sorry I can't grant you entry',
Saith the Lord's most trusted sentry.
'Please, I beg, don't think me mean,
'It's just I like my stairway clean.'

I turn around, descend dejected.
Steps are quickly disinfected.
Guess I'll make my way to hell,
Wipe my feet and ring the bell.
Then settle down with scythe and cowl
And see some bankers disemboweled.

Woe is me, because my daughter
Didn't listen when I taught her:
Want your mum to go to heaven?
Don't put her in at gas mark seven.