Rest in peace,
Young father,
Old son,
Who stepped up to the cake,
Then sizzled back down,
Whose daughter never aged
Because he never put her down,
Whose wife saved the kitchen,
But wouldn’t rescue him,
He blew out the candle,
Was this her wish?
The wish of an infant, 
Too young to blow;
Too young to know,
The flaming fire,
That lasted four hours,
Slowly took the life,
Of her angry father,

Rest in peace,
You who did not enjoy death,
Eyebrows narrowed;
Nostrils flared,
As the party stood and stared,
It was so sudden,
When you turned to ash,
The organ struck a spooky chord,
Death appeared, scythe and all,
To beckon you with a cloaked hand.
Dressed up in a red tuxedo,
You shook with a friendly nod,
This said and done,
The hooded sent you on your way,
Leaving us your tombstone,
Your jar; your ashes,

Rest in peace,
Roasted one,
Whose guests left, disappointed, 
Whose friends could only say:
“You should’ve been more careful,”
Whose family cried as Death greeted you,
Grim stayed a moment longer,
And washed the dirty dishes.