Death, or how to avoid dentures

My Thursday was well occupied writing epitaphs for Stephen Young, not that I wish he were dead. They're fictional and independent of each other, with the kind of morbid humor I would expect to see trailside in frontier country.

Here lies Stephen, in clouds he’s wading
As he never got too wasted
But if for fire this life he’s trading
It's a good thing we had him basted

Stephen Young was out of luck
The day he got hit by a truck
A car, a bus, and we can only pray
He was dead by the time he was struck by that Segway®

Here the bones of Stephen lie
Poor boy he was, convinced he could fly
No grave was dug where he was laid
We just covered over the dent he made

Many years on a comfotable pension
Which Stephen earned for a brilliant invention
A great surprise to him was that
Everyone loved his "edible hat"

Here lies Stephen, 5 000 pound
The coffin special, was made round
On his virtue or work, none expound
Though none fail to comment on the size of the mound

Here lies Stephen and his wife
Who, when married, refused his name
He was Young for all his life
She was not; they died all the same

I think I have a legitamite career on my hands here. I just wonder how one breaks into the grave decorating buisness, and whether an edible hat would actually work.


P.S. My room, that is, in the new house, is pink. Pink brick patterns, matte pink finish, pale pink mouldings. With pink trim. (It was handpainted by a former teenage girl) The floor is the kind of hardwood that exists only in bed & breakfasts in Skagway, Alaska, where a former park ranger-turned-old-lady forces you to do chores for her, even though you're leaving really early the next morning. The are a triumvirate of track lights which accent the pinkness of the room like a quebecker who is speaking french. I will enjoy spending 10 minutes of my vertical day there.