He lived a good life…now he is gone.
He’ll toil no more…his work is done.
The coffin in which the corpse is laid
Is nothing much and roughly made.

The once noisy streets are now so still…
The window he looked out of, hands on the sill
Is now a rotting window frame,
Facing the street where he played many a game.

The flowers are dead upon the window ledge…
The pictures…just a blob of paint…seemingly wedge
Into the mouldering walls and rotting plaster…
The faithful dog lies still beside his master.

Upon the stone slab the verse to be;
“I served my master, faithfully.”
The funeral pyre on which on which the corpse will burn.
‘Remember unto dust thou shalt return.’