The perfect day, Today, for effecting the perfected death;
Blanch walls been stamped enough with black-lettered noughts and crosses
Battle-pits all, crayoned and grid-locked, sprouting designless.
Some such comical chronicle of inane violence
with gallant noughts and crosses playing fillers to a four-yearly wait,
shall finally aid in charting out a death-sentence:
This death, self-tuned and demanding reverence.
Thus today, when your shadow is rolled up with finality’s flourish,
you know the memorial shall be grand,
divested as it is from the everyday of the every-year;
Celebrations of your absence, to be observed with overwhelming relish.
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